


Mirage

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [20]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alderaan, Alderaan Temple, Beta'd by Booklindworm, Disability, Force Training, Gen, Lightsaber Training, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Tatooine, The Sand Exercise, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 103,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26368582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: Many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view.
Series: The Desert Storm [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311746
Comments: 2855
Kudos: 2392





	1. Chapter 1

Ylar Kala looks at the man before her, the most improbable and tricky patient she has ever had, that she ever will have, takes a breath, steels herself, and accepts what has been becoming more and more apparent to her.

“You are utterly correct, Ben.” She admits. “And I am afraid that there is little more that I can do to help you.”

He looks back at her, tired blue-grey eyes wide in surprise, and then his expression crumples before he turns away, hiding his it in the shadow of one hand.

 _I don’t feel like this is working_. He’d said, after a restless, too long silence.

“Ben.” Ylar prompts, after giving him a minute. “Until quite recently I believed I was treating a man – you – in a safe environment for which you could heal, while aware of the fact that the future would pose a traumatic obstacle to your wellbeing.”

He frowns thoughtfully, not quite certain where she intends to go with that. Ylar offers a supportive, calm look in return. “It wasn’t until I saw Obi-Wan and understood who he is, how old he is – that I became aware of our grave error.”

His frown becomes more pronounced.

“Ben,” Ylar says patiently, “ you cannot heal in the same environment which traumatized you.”

“This _isn’t_.” Ben replies, insistent. “This isn’t when it happened.”

Ylar looks back at him steadily. “But this is where it started, didn’t it? Or nearly? This place, this time – Ben, it is your home. But it is also the place – or one of the places – where you were hurt the worst.” She explains as gently as she can, laying out the impossible problem for what it was.

No one and nothing could pull you from a flashback when it wasn’t a flashback at all. Ben is reliving his pain more literally than any patient she has ever had, and she _can’t fix that_.

“What am I supposed to do?” Ben asks, exuding frustration as he shifts in his seat and then grimaces, carefully adjusting his leg and the new prosthetic port. The actual replacement limb had yet to be fitted, and his crutched remained carefully leant against the back of his chair.

“ _We_ – “ Ylar replies firmly. “ – are going to keep doing the best we can. Day by day.”

Her muzzle twitches, and she turns her teacup. “You make this difficult, of course, when you insist on departing for an indeterminate length of time.” She prompts.

“Nowhere dangerous nor significant.” Ben replies.

Ylar blinks, and flatly doesn’t believe him. Ben’s perspective on such things was too bias to be trusted.

Ben sighs. “I am not telling you where I intend to go.” He says, by which she knows he means he isn’t telling anyone, because no one knows, and the Reconciliation Council has expressed concerns. It is Ylar’s opinion, however, as his Mind Healer, that carries weight if they are to deny him the leave of absence. They can’t say no on their own just because the man is difficult.

“And is this _actually_ a training sabbatical, Ben, or is that a euphemism for your obscure scheming?”

His lips twitch at the teasing, his offense entirely pretended. Ylar has called him on much of his less decorous behavior over the years, and he is used to it by now.

“It is. The Council is dropping less than subtle hints of Knighting my padawan and there is – there is much I _have_ to teach him first. I suppose it is – now or never. I’m going to tell him.”

Ben’s voice is low and calm and it takes a moment for his last sentence to truly regiter for what it was.

“You’re going to tell Obi-Wan?” Ylar’s ears twitch. “How much?” She ventures.

“Everything he needs to know.” Ben replies, which tells Ylar… almost nothing. Ben is, when he means to be, utterly inscrutable. Ben catches that look she lights upon him, and then he glances away, reading it for what it was. “More than anyone else.” He adds softly, his voice catching.

Ylar can’t say she disagrees with the notion that he do this very, very far away.

She takes a deep breath, studies him, and nods. “You will take your holocron this time, Ben Naasade, and you will have at least one session a week. You will _meditate every day_.”

“I have your approval then?” He lifts one brow.

Ylar hums. “You have my permission.” She counters, and hopes this will do him some good. Time away from the Temple, away from missions, and politics, and secrets.

She hopes. Stars above, she hopes.

~*~

Step-tac-step-tac-step-tac.

His gait, when he listens to it, is almost meditative in its simple alternating repetition. It’s what he focuses on when he walks, and not the prickly-itch he feels from the foot that is _no longer there_. The Healers tell him the phantom sensations will all but disappear once a proper mechanical replacement is attached, but he is, at present, on the waiting list. The MediCorps is doing all they can, but resources are limited.

Ben has assured them that this is no problem. He wants only the most basic function, and informed them of such. The Healer’s had cautioned him, reminding him that he is a field-serving jedi master and that a basic model would not best suit his needs. Ben had remained firm, not quite able to explain the significance of the fact that he has Shmi Skywalker available to him. She may not hold a candle to Anakin’s power, but she was every bit the mechanical genius her son was growing up to be.

The prickles in his non-existent foot sharpen into a clenching twinge and Ben has to stop and stand aside until it passes, gritting his teeth and breathing deeply. He may yet change his mind and take Healer Chias up on the analgesic shots he’d been offered, at least until his next surgery.

Ben makes his way into the gardens, where the fountains are fewer and quieter, and the air current different than before with the damage sections sealed off. Some ponds and channeled streams, he knows, had been drained where the water was no longer able to flow, less they turned fetid. Some morning they end up with fog now, after the rain cycle, as a result of the altered environmentals. The padawans and disciples seem to like it.

The gardens are quieter too, without the younglings.

 _They are safer away from here_ , Ben thinks, and is glad for it.

He finds Sian up a tree.

Up a _thorn_ tree.

He still considers climbing it for all of a minute before he settles down at its base to wait.

She’ll come down eventually. She can’t hide from him forever.

A stray lizard crawls over his boot – no doubt a misplaced pet, or else the ecology of the gardens has changed more significantly than he’d been informed of, and Ben watches it disappear into the grass, clearly quite content.

Sian creeps down not long after, with the languid grace of an athletic youth.

He remembers her covered in blood, the messy meat of her arm, the gouge in her face. There’s not a mark to be found. She is perfectly whole.

That doesn’t stop Ben’s padawan from having nightmares, and Ben has had to console him from several now.

Sian too has the drawn, smudged look of the sleepless.

“Sit.” He says softly.

She fixes him with an iridescent stare, and behind that look is more guilt and fear than a child her age deserves. She’s only seventeen.

Her gaze drops to his stump and her throat bobs, and she sits, tucking in on herself and then trying to look anywhere else.

“Sian.”

“I’m sorry.” She blurts out. Again.

Ben sighs.

They have made their reports to both the Mission Council – a subset of the new full High Council, given the tedium of attempting to summon every member for every little thing - and the Reconciliation Council, but reports are factual, sometimes distant things. It is the Council’s place to censure failure in action as regards the assignment. It is a Masters place to deal with the more personal aspects – the emotional conflicts, the flaws in training and understanding.

Her master is presently….unavailable, and would not completely understand besides.

“It’s my fault.” She says smally, looking up at him though it appears that is a painful endeavor for the usually outgoing padawan.

Ben sighs again. “Sian… explain to me what you saw. What you believed was happening.”

Her brow furrows. “I – don’t understand.”

“I ordered you to stay out of my way. I physically removed you from the fight. Why did you disobey me?”

Her eyes water, and she looks away again.

“I didn’t – I didn’t mean to. I didn’t-“ She takes a breath, then another. Her posture shifts, less cringing and more disciplined. She breathes out, and there is a distance in her eyes when she looks back up, a shielded veneer. “I saw a murderer, strong in the Dark Side of the Force. Someone who had attacked and killed innocents, who had – who had cut down my master.” She swallows, and breathes. “You weren’t attempting to subdue him.”

“Wasn’t I?” Ben inquires calmly, and she tenses, not _quite_ a flinch. She breathes.

She shudders, and doesn’t look at him. “You were hurting him.” She whispers, barely audible. “And it felt like the only thing you wanted to do was _hurt_ him.”

Ben flexes his fingers, and listens to her breathing, measuring his own in tandem. “You had no idea what I was trying to do.” Ben states simply, walling himself off from the rest of it.

She swallows again, her eyes bright, and still distant. “No.” She admits.

“So what were you doing?” There is no accusation in his tone, but this time she does flinch.

“I couldn’t subdue him. Obi-Wan and I together could barely keep up with him. He was so –“ She stops herself from getting off track, and Ben quietly approves. Qui-Gon _has_ trained her well. “I couldn’t subdue him myself and I couldn’t let him get away and I had no idea _what_ you were trying to do.”

“So you went for the kill.” Ben remarks.

Her lips don’t tremble. She holds herself and nods.

“Why?” Ben presses, eyes pinching.

A furrow reappears in her brow. “I don’t understand.” She glances at him uncertainly, still shaken by guilt.

“Why?” Ben repeats, just as guileless.

“I don’t – that’s what my training dictates I should do, if no other option remains. To prevent greater harm.”

“Yes.” Ben agrees.

Her gaze holds his for a moment, confusion furling through it, loose strands of white and brown hair falling around her face, still soft with youth. “I don’t understand. What I did was _wrong_.”

“What _did_ you do wrong?” Ben prompts.

Sian bursts at the question, a tightly coiled snarl of tension springing out of her skin in frantic energy. “I distracted my master! I got in your way, I let the darksider escape, and you _lost a limb_ , and –“

“Sian Jeisel.” Ben stops her. “I didn’t ask what you _feel guilty for_. I asked you what did you do _wrong_?”

The devaronian padawan hesitates, tugging uncertainly at her pink tabards, and Ben waits.

“I didn’t listen.” She comes out with.

“Why?”

She looks away, and shame joins guilt in the Force. Ben draws on the thorn tree, on the grass and the moss, on the simple clarity of the Living Force ever present in the Room of Less-Than-a-Thousand Fountains, and cleanses it away.

“ _Why_?” He asks again.

“I didn’t trust you.” She utters, eyes pooling tears. She breathes in and breathes in, until her chest no doubt aches with it, and breathes out with slow, precise steadiness. She blinks her lashes clear, still avoiding his gaze.

“And was that wrong?” Ben inquires.

He startles her into looking at him again. “Of course it was!” She retorts.

“Why?” Ben continues.

“You’re a _Jedi Master_.”

“Then why didn’t you trust me?" He can tell his manner is working under her skin.

“Because you’re – _you_.” She grits out and then bites her lip, troubled and sorry for having _said_ it.

“I am.” Ben agrees, smiling with rueful acceptance of the fact. He is who he is, what he is, and given that she is one of his self-appointed Ben Naasade Support Group members, she knows too. “So I will ask you again, was that wrong?”

“I – I don’t know.” Sian hedges, muttering it out reluctantly.

Ben accepts that, for now.

“You didn’t know if you could trust me.” Ben states, bringing them back around. “So you relied on yourself. Was that right or wrong?”

“I _feel_ like it was wrong.” Sian says, the words strangled.

“It was.” Ben nods to her instincts.

Her head comes back up, eyes widening then narrowing. “But didn’t you just-“

“You and I were not alone down there, Sian.” Ben remarks pointedly.

She stares at him, and Ben continues.

“Whether or not you meant to distract us is irrelevant. None of us can say whether we would not have been equally startled had you shielded better and simply appeared in this midst of the fight. You’ve never faced the Dark Side of the Force before, and you were doing the best you could to protect yourself while coming to our aide. _That_ was not wrong.” Ben says patiently, with the grace of hindsight and therapy. “But when Qui-Gon was injured, you rushed in blindly, and that - that was.”

“Obi-Wan had to save Master Qui-Gon.” Sian whispers, convinced and clinging to it.

“And he did.” Ben swallows. “But had you paused, just a moment, to plan, to address whether or not _he_ thought you could rely on me… that is where you went wrong. You denied yourself council when you were out of your depth and you made mistakes you might not have otherwise made." Ben says. "When you work together in the field with another Jedi, Sian, you must rely on each other, you must be in sync, and of one mind. You may not agree, you may not go about the mission in the same way, but if you do not share the same vision, then you will fail. We were all present, but we were not together, and _that_ was our failure, padawan. You went down that tunnel with Obi-Wan. You should have stayed with him.”

“So it _was_ my fault.” Her gaze skitters to his leg again.

Ben sighs, again. “Perhaps I should send you to Master Yaddle to discuss the nature of _fault_ , padawan. She has extensive lectures on the effacement of guilt. _You_ did not run your master through with a lightsaber. _You_ did not collapse the ceiling. You were _rash_. That was all.”

“But because of me, the Sith-“

“Did you _know_ that?” Ben cuts her off, quelling the part of himself that agrees with her, that simmers with bitter anger over what happened - that _does_ blame her. "Did you have any idea what was really at stake?"

If he allows himself to blame her, she will forever blame herself. And that – that would break her. The fate of the ones you love – that is too big a burden to bear. Ben does not want her broken.

He does not want her to end up like him.

So his anger at her, his blame – he _must_ let it go.

“…no.” She says uncertainly.

Ben leans forward, encouraging her to meet his gaze and meeting hers fully, showing her that he _understands_ , that he does not hold this against her.

“We cannot control the world. We cannot control the people in it. We have very little power over our circumstances. The only thing we can truly control, Sian, is ourselves. That in and of itself is a difficult enough task. Keep your focus on it.”

“I…” She trails off, still chalk full of fear and shame, guilt and confusion, but it is not the puckering, sucking wound that it had been. For now, that is enough.

She licks her lips, something in her gaze shifting, a question she’s been holding back.

“What happened to _your_ master?” She asks awkwardly, fingers curled tightly over her knees. “When he - you – I thought –“

Ben winces. Had she caught a glimpse of that? Had he been projecting, when the flashback hit?

“He died.” Ben murmurs, looking down at the grass, tugging it between his fingertips. “He died, and I never forgave him for it.”

Sian breathes in. “My master is still alive.” She says, her voice rising and collapsing with the relief, the _gift_ that that is.

“He is.” Ben agrees, looking back up at her.

Qui-Gon has paid a price for that, which is why Obi-Wan appears to _also_ be in hiding, but he is _alive_.

Sian breathes out. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t save him.” Ben remarks. Sian looks at him sharply, gaze shimmering.

“ _Thank you_ , Master Ben.” Sian repeats fiercely. Ben shifts, discomfited, and nods faintly.

He wishes people wouldn't turn these conversations around on him.


	2. Chapter 2

“Only a Jedi could be _sullen_ for not having done a _more miraculous_ job of saving someone from certain death.” Lady Livion announces herself scathingly, a shadow among shadows in the dark planetarium, constellations gently spinning around Obi-Wan, seated in its center.

“I’m not-“ Obi-Wan cuts himself off, clenching his jaw. He should know better than to let himself be needled by the shade.

“Moping? Brooding?  _ Hiding _ ?” The Dark Lady taunts, voice dripping with delighted malice.

Obi-Wan does his best to keep his expression passive.

He’s never been very good at it, when provoked.

Her harsh yellow eyes seem to bore out of the darkness of the room, as she sits across from him, mimicking his posture – though with a languid, mocking slouch, as opposed to his rigid form.

She doesn’t usually bother to acknowledge him for more time than it takes her to sneer. Apparently, the shade found his presence to be ‘offensively uninteresting.’

Obi-Wan generally considers this to be a good thing – people the shade is noted to be interested in tend to find themselves in the Soul Healer’s care. He thinks the shade has yet to realize that the Healers have taken to using her as a barometer for troubled Jedi who may be in need of guidance and a little more support.

“Lady Livion.” He greets politely, ignoring the fact that he had already acknowledged her by responding to her cruelty.

“Nn.” Her lip curls in dissatisfaction, and Obi-Wan offers her a bland, passive smile, trying to will the tension out of his frame. “I have been  _ badgered _ to remind you of how very insignificant some things are. The man you’re mourning is alive, is that not  _ enough _ ?”

Obi-Wan blinks, confused by the first half of that statement and taken aback by the viciousness of the second. “Have I offended you, Lady Livion?”

He doesn’t think a ghost  _ can _ flinch, but the shadows pull in, prickly and small. Her gaze seethes with bitterness and hatred and hunger.

“There is no end to the things I would have given up or destroyed to save the woman I loved.” She spits at him. “You barely even  _ care _ for that man, and all his life cost was his ability to feel the Force.”

“I don’t care much for him.” Obi-Wan admits shamefully. “But some part of me is forever twelve years old, wishing he found me worthy. I took from him the most precious and intimate thing in a Jedi’s life. How am I supposed to face that? Maybe you wouldn’t have cared what it cost to save your wife’s life, but  _ she _ might have.”

That was unkind, and he knew it was unkind as he was saying it.

The shade attacks him, vanishing only to become a screaming, cripplingly cold, vicious thing, clawing at his mind, at his essence, with a sudden burst of dark power and unanswerable  _ grief _ .

Obi-Wan gasps and topples over, cradling his skull and strengthening his focus on his shields, walling her out, until the pain is minimal, and the howling something he hears, not something he  _ feels _ , shredding through his thoughts and emotions. “I’m sorry.” He apologizes, and still she rakes at him, trying to wound him in a way that matters, in any way at all. “Lady Livion, I am sorry.”

‘ _ You should be _ !  _ You horrible, selfish, unworthy child! Had I a fraction of your gifts, had I _ -‘

Something shifts, like a whisper he can’t hear, a voice he can only almost recognize, just beyond his reach.

Lady Livion reappears in the room, abruptly releasing him, tears burning at her eyes. She screams, not in the Force but in the projection of her voice, a raw, harrowing cry of rage and resentment that  _ hurts _ .

It seems very… mortal. As does the way she sinks to the floor after, as if forgetting she wasn’t something still alive, still trapped in flesh and all its limitations.

Obi-Wan pushes up from his knees and approaches her cautiously, himself perhaps forgetting too, as he hovers, wondering how to comfort her, how to possibly soothe the pain that tore at the world around her-

She sees him and scoffs, like she’s never seen anything so hopeless and foolish.

“I hate you.” She seethes.

Obi-Wan lets his hands drop loose to his sides, and lowers himself back to his knees, so that they are once more on level. “I’m sorry.” He offers.

Her eyes narrow, her hands curled like claws over the memory of her skirts, caught up in her grip.

“You should be.” She snaps, and then turns her glare aside, like she is looking at someone else. “ _ Fine _ .” She hisses, and looks back to him. “Have a little faith, Obi-Wan Kenobi, in stubbornness and the Force.  _ Quit your sniveling _ .”

She vanishes, and with her a pressure he hadn’t realized was still pushing at him, making his head hurt.

That sounded…. awfully familiar, he thinks, looking around the empty planetarium, and the shimmer of holographic stars.

~*~

Fay was cautiously optimistic, when Ben handed her a small flimsi wrapped package, that he might have gotten her a Mirialan layered fruit tart from a Coruscanti vendor. (Hopefully from a vendor. Ben is many things – a competent baker is not one of them.)

She unwraps it, and it is not a Mirialan fruit tart.

She is not even a little disappointed.

Even if she  _ is _ hungry.

“Oh, Ben.”

It’s a comb.

It is a lovely comb of golden glass, with a curling vine pattern complimentary to the one that marks her skin.

Moreover, it is imbued with the Force, and it absolutely  _ sings _ of care, of quiet, steadfast companionship, warm and heady rich and lambent.

Fay cradles it in her palms, thumb running over the smooth curves and delicate, blunted pins. She looks up at him and arches a brow. “You are getting  _ very _ good at this.” She remarks, her voice lower than her intended.

He smirks like the cheeky, confident menace that he can be and Fay laughs against his lips when he leans in for a kiss, capturing her breath and  _ all _ of her attention.

_ Finally _ , Fay thinks.

His arms are warm around her back and her fingers are tangled in his hair, the comb slipped safely into the folds of her layered tunics when they pause. Ben trails lazy kisses from the corner of her mouth to the corner of her jaw and then rests his chin over her shoulder, tucking her closer to his body and just holding her, the gentle scrape of his beard leaving a pleasant tickle in his wake.

Fay hums in simple pleasure. “Thank you for the gift, Ben.” She murmurs. Even now, she can feel it near her skin, radiant with soft intimacy, and that warmth seeps through her like she has been dipped in sunshine.

It is intense, in all of the ways that it isn’t.

But she means the kiss too.

“I was hoping you’d like it.” He replies in good humor, his weight lax against her, encompassing. Fay plays with his hair, teasing it through her fingers. It truly was such a lovely color, even with the silver creeping at his temples. He’s still young, for a Jedi, who did not age quite so harshly as those who did not or could not cultivate the Force within them, but his years are a burden that have sunk themselves in deep, leeching at him.

Fay finds that she… frets. About the shadows beneath his eyes when he does not join her for the night. About the weight he still hasn’t quite gotten back after Mandalore. About the uneven tension he is carrying, his body trying to compensate for the partial loss of a limb that has thrown everything out of balance, in spite of the apparent ease and pragmatism with which Ben seems to be dealing with the loss.

But more than her worries is her  _ wanting _ . Her thoughts linger on him, in his presence, in his absence; too often for her to mistake it for anything but what it was. She misses his weight against hers, the spicy smell his clothes carry, the haphazard and eclectic varieties of teas he brews to try and keep her guessing. His too-sharp thoughts, and indulgent humor, and the haunting, irreplaceable  _ knowing _ deep in his eyes, a soul that understands the same sorrows as her own.

Fay curls around him, holding him tighter, and he hums, pressing a kiss to her shoulder with casual ease.

_ Foolish, fragile hearts _ , she thinks, the both of them cursed with it, with the inevitable heartbreak.

But for the moment, she doesn’t care.

~*~

“If you think I am incapable of throwing you over my shoulder and  _ hobbling _ to the halls, padawan mine, you would be greatly mistaken.” Ben warns, the threat very real.

His padawan pulls a face, twitching minutely as if resisting the urge to disappear again. It is exceedingly difficult to corner a padawan who can more or less walk through walls, particularly while on crutches himself, but Ben can be…tenacious. “Please do not.” Obi-Wan mutters.

“So you  _ are _ going to walk down there with me, like a respectable young man?” Ben prompts.

Obi-Wan gives him a pleading look, and Ben has to steel himself. It is  _ unfair _ that he can be so affected by such an expression on the very face he has  _ seen in the mirror _ . “Must I? Master Jinn didn’t even like me  _ before _ I ruined his life.”

“You cannot avoid him forever.” Ben says tersely. “And you  _ did not ruin his life _ .”

“I probably can and I am rather certain I did.”

“ _ Obi-Wan Kenobi _ .” Ben sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “ _ Please _ .”

His padawan squirms. This, Ben knows, is why Obi-Wan has been avoiding him in addition to avoiding the halls and Padawan Jeisel. Because Ben absolutely can and is guilt tripping him into acquiescing.

“Yes, Master.” Obi-Wan murmurs, swallowing in quiet distress.

Now  _ Ben _ feels guilty.

Contrary to his padawan’s belief – and to Ben’s shameful surprise – Qui-Gon has  _ requested _ to see him. But he thinks telling Obi-Wan that would stress him further, not less, and Ben does not enjoy his padawan’s suffering. So.

Jedi politely and discreetly move out of Ben’s way when he traverses the corridors – he’s hardly the first or the last or the only one currently making his way around with the aid of crutches or a hover chair or other mobility device, and at this point, the habit is ingrained.

It chafes less and less.

He wasn’t here when the temple broke apart around them, but he understands more deeply than they can ever know, what they must have felt - those that were. The Jedi around him are shaken and wary, but they are also closer and kinder to each other; more forgiving, less courteously distant. Objectively, this comes as a great relief to him. In practice, he would appreciate it if that did not apply so much in his own case. He dislikes being fussed over by anyone who happens to pass by whenever his discomfort is less than invisible. It makes him feel unsettled and irritable and guilty, because he feels that had he simply done better, done differently, done _ more _ –

_ You cannot control the world _ , he reminds himself sharply, grinding his teeth.

Obi-Wan glances at him in concern, and a passing master gives pause, glancing between them to assess if they can somehow help. Ben gives his padawan a short look, and Obi-Wan turns to smile politely at the other master, waving them on.

‘ _ Thank you _ .’ Ben projects to his padawan.

Knight Leeoli is manning the service desk when they arrive, and the bronze skinned Mon Calamari gives them both a scrutinizing once-over before they are intercepted by Padawan Wraith, who seems to have an unusually keen disposition for where people need to go when they arrive, sometimes before they themselves do.

The Nightwalker padawan offers a placid smile to Knight Leeoli, who still gives Ben a slightly suspicious look, but waves them on.

“If you would convince Padawan Jeisel to return some of the plants she has relocated to the proper quarters, Master Naasade, it would be appreciated.” Healer Che’s Dathomiri padawan says softly, in their low tones.

“I will make the endeavor.” Ben replies, promising nothing. The girl is coping largely by being stubborn and putting on a brave, indefatigably cheerful face for her master - and pretending she can’t hear him when he waffles about breaking their training bond.

Qui-Gon had, in the face of such stubbornness, asked Ben to counsel the girl about looking for a new master. Ben had patted him on the shoulder and flatly refused to do so. Mace Windu, heart in the right place, had not been as wise.

Perhaps part of the reason she and Qui-Gon matched so well was not only her formidable patience and outgoing nature, but the fact that she proved to be every bit his equal for an acerbic tongue when her ire was woken. She gave Mace the frustrated, riled, lashing refusal she would not give to her master while he was still confined to the Halls and quite poorly of spirit.

Mace did not fare well.

Ben had warned him.

Sian sits cross legged on the end of Qui-Gon’s bed when they arrive, reading aloud – with commentary – the lecture notes from one of her courses.

Qui-Gon is watching her with interminable sadness in his ice blue eyes, and Sian is steadfastly ignoring the look as she continues to chatter with nearly aggressive pep.

Potted plants spill over the bedside table, the bio-scanner, the sill-plate of the false window, and have started accumulating on the floor.

“Sian Jeisel, this is entirely the wrong environment for those flowers.” Ben tuts, recognizing one of the finicky violets, precariously resting on the bio-scanner. “Take them back to where you found them and mist the poor things with some soap-water.”

“But-“

“The fern too, and that – is that one Mace’s cacti?”

Qui-Gon turns and frowns in the direction of his gaze.

“… maybe?”

“Return it.” Ben sighs.

“I will-“

“Now, if you please.” Ben prompts, and then glances at his padawan and back to her pointedly. Sian glances quickly between Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon and slithers off her master’s bio-bed.

“Of course, Master Ben.”

She doesn’t have enough hands for the three plants together. This doesn’t prove problematic, as she simply picks them up and stacks them in front of herself, as if she were holding a tray where no tray, in fact, actually exists. It’s an appallingly competent display of static structuring, and Obi-Wan looks like he is dying to launch into a discussion about it. Sian is always ahead of him in developing more creative uses of the technique. Ben leans on his crutches and drops a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, squeezing.

“If only she heeded me so obediently.” Qui-Gon mutters, once she’s left.

Ben snorts in disagreement. Sian’s contrariness was good for the man, in Ben’s opinion. Good for herself, as well, most of the time.

“Qui-Gon.” Ben greets.

“Ben.” Qui-Gon nods cordially, and then shifts his gaze to Obi-Wan.

“Padawan Kenobi.”

This greeting is, in comparison, quite strained.


	3. Chapter 3

Obi-Wan is too tall and his master too short now, for the latter to stand behind the former with his hands on his shoulders for silent, solid support, and in this moment, Obi-Wan wishes this weren’t the case.

He misses the days when Master Ben was, in his eyes, undefeatable and steadfast, when his protection and guidance seemed absolute; as if, with Ben behind him, nothing could hurt Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan could not fail.

But the mercy and cruelty of life was that there were no absolutes.

Still, Obi-Wan braces himself, crossing his arms and holding up his posture, leaning a bit more into the training bond with his master, quietly seeking fortitude as he faces Master Qui-Gon’s heavy ice-blue stare.

After a moment of steadily thickening silence, Master Jinn sighs, brow pinching, and glances to Master Ben. “Could we… have a moment in private?” He requests, voice coarse and flat.

Obi-Wan’s fingers tighten, digging in to his arms, but he lets nothing he feels cross his face.

Master Ben, standing reassuringly at Obi-Wan’s side, offers his friend a thin, faint smile, the look in his eyes firm. “I am afraid, Qui-Gon, that given your history, leaving you alone with my padawan is not an option.”

Master Jinn shifts uncomfortably. “I would prefer-“

“No.” Ben shakes his head once, and Master Jinn’s mouth clicks shut, jaw clenching.

“Very well.” He mutters, and Obi-Wan feels a profound sense of relief.

At least until Master Jinn returns his weighted gaze to him, and Obi-Wan can feel his heart seed up, a nervous sweat make his hands clammy.

 _I didn’t do it on purpose_. Obi-Wan wants to blurt out _. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It wasn’t to punish you for rejecting me. I’m sorry. I tried. I tried and I just_ –

 _Wasn’t good enough_.

And that hurts the worst, because it seems Obi-Wan was _never_ good enough for Master Jinn.

Instead, Obi-Wan bites his tongue and stands very still and waits, feeling like he’s twelve years old again and a failure.

Master Jinn glances away for a long moment, his face carved like stone, and the seconds seem to build immeasurably, pressing down on Obi-Wan until it feels like he can’t breathe.

Master Qui-Gon doesn’t look at him. Shame and guilt twist in Obi-Wan’s gut, turning his stomach, but anger pools down low in his core too, and he wrestles with it, with the voice in the shadows of his mind deriding that this isn’t fair, that Obi-Wan saved his ungrateful life, that he tried, and it wasn’t his fault it wasn’t enough, Master Jinn _should have been dead_ -

Obi-Wan squeezes his arms harder, till the scarred bones in his right hand start to ache, even after all this time and the improved treatments.

“Thank you, Obi-Wan Kenobi, for saving my life.” Master Jinn says hoarsely. “And I am sorry, for the way I treated you back then, and the manner in which I have treated you since. You deserved an apology long ago, and it should not have taken – it should not have taken so much and so long for one to pass my lips.”

Obi-Wan stares at the listless master in shock, frozen to the core. The words penetrate, and Obi-Wan chokes, throat closing up, face burning, heart pounding, stomach turning over in knots. “You’re _sorry_?” He blurts out, appalled and indignant and – and – _mortified_ , maybe, because he is _Force-Blind_ because of Obi-Wan and Master Qui-Gon is _apologizing_ to him.

The looks he receives is sharp and full of consternation. “Did I not just-“

“Shut up!” Obi-Wan blurts out, trying to decide how he is supposed to feel, what he is supposed to do-

“Padawan, - ” Master Ben starts to rebuke him, and then stops, closing his mouth and letting out an exhale. To be honest, Obi-Wan’s master looks… a little discomfited himself. Obi-Wan stares at him, and _he_ doesn’t seem to know what to do, so Obi-Wan turns a glare on Master Qui-Gon, for somehow making this so difficult, by virtue of being – well, Master Qui-Gon.

Master Qui-Gon looks back unhappily, no doubt wishing the padawan had accepted his words at face value and then politely departed, leaving them both with their dignity.

No such luck.

Obi-Wan has held the very fabric of this man’s making in his hands and held it together, turned it back into itself, but made whole – or nearly.

Obi-Wan has explained his actions and his efforts to the Reconciliation Council, to Master Yaddle, to Tsui, but he has never explained what it really _felt_ like, to not simply reshape form, as he had with Sian, but to reshape _life_ as it bled into death. It felt too personal, intimate and violating and so, so beyond words. He has never told anyone what the essence of Sian’s existence felt like, what Master Jinn’s did, and he never will.

But he had held Master Jinn’s existence in his grasp – and he thinks his touch may have left a mark, even after he let go. He has held that secret deep inside him, afraid of it, with no one who could help him understand it.

Master Jinn had fought, and Obi-Wan had made mistakes, and that – that he thinks he could be forgiven for. But he worries he may have _changed_ the man, in shaping him and that - that –

He fears that. He is no Witch, no Dathomiri Nightsister. He is a Jedi, and some things… some things he cannot reconcile, cannot condone, not for any reason.

Someone’s life is not clay in his hands, a person is not – should not be –

‘ _Obi-Wan, you’re panicking_.’ His master informs him gently, and Obi-Wan forces himself to breathe.

‘ _What if he’s apologizing to me because I messed up his head_?’ Obi-Wan projects back, before he can really process it.

Master Ben lets out a startled bark of laughter before covering his mouth, earning a confused, bordering on angry look from Master Jinn. Master Ben waves a hand for him to ignore that, and Master Jinn just scowls more fiercely, looking slighted.

“Give the man a little credit for his own agency, padawan.” Master Ben murmurs.

‘ _But what if_ -‘

‘ _Obi-Wan_.’ Master Ben chides. ‘ _What is done is done. He has to live with it more than you do, so I suggest you let him live with it as he is, and don’t cast doubt onto his already precarious sense of identity and wellbeing_.’

Obi-Wan swallows. His master makes a very apt point. The auburn-haired padawan looks nervously back to Master Jinn, who has sighed with fatigue and looks… withdrawn. Defeated.

Like it doesn’t matter if Obi-Wan rejects his apology. Like it doesn’t matter that the padawan fought for his life. Like it doesn’t matter that his padawan refuses to give up on him, even if Obi-Wan finds her in the salles at unfathomable hours of the night, pushing herself mercilessly through her forms, pretending her tears were from exhaustion.

 _“I have to be good enough, Obi-Wan. I have to be good enough that no one can ever say he isn’t.”_ She’d insisted - after he’d simply pushed her over when she refused to stop, having abused herself well beyond good form already, muscles quivering. Obi-Wan had been very understanding of that, and helped her to her feet, and then he threw her over his shoulder and returned her to her bed, where she belonged, before heading back to his own.

Obi-Wan glares at Master Jinn, whose expression pinches under his ire. Obi-Wan draws back, and bows.

“I cannot accept your apology in the spirit you think you mean it, Master Jinn, while your words remain less substantial than your actions.”

Master Jinn looks gobsmacked. Obi-Wan doesn’t dare look at Master Ben.

“I beg your pardon?” Master Jinn thunders quietly, duly offended. Obi-Wan rises from his bow.

“Don’t say you are sorry for rejecting one padawan, Master Jinn, while you are simultaneously doing the exact same thing to another.” Obi-Wan says, tone coldly short. “The both of us deserve better.” He finishes.

Then, rapidly losing his nerve, certain he is either going to take ill or else cry, Obi-Wan departs.

~*~

“One wonders that such a renowned padawan practices such insolence.” Qu-Gon mutters, in Obi-Wan’s wake.

Ben jerks his attention around, back towards the bio-bed instead of staring in surprise after his padawan’s retreat. “Better insolent than cowed.” He retorts, on his padawans behalf – on his own.

Qui-Gon looks grieved. “The boy hates me.”

Ben sighs. “He doesn’t _hate_ you, Qui-Gon, but your judgement has left in him a self-doubt that he still struggles to overcome.” Something Ben understands… too well. “He was terrified to see you today.”

Qui-Gon sighs morosely. “That isn’t any better.”

“Perhaps not.” Ben remarks, moving to sit on the lower end of the bed, hoping to head off any worse swelling in his knee. He has not been as restful and conscientious of his leg as the healers have ordered him to be. “You surprised him. To be honest, you surprised me.” He admits.

“Am I so deplorable a character that it is presumed Master Qui-Gon Jinn never deigns to express humility?” Qui-Gon snaps bitterly.

“Deplorable? No. Obstinate? Utterly.” Ben drawls, a touch more sharply than he’d meant to, glancing aside at Qui-Gon and lifting a pointed brow. “Or does the former Padawan of Master Yan Dooku deny that?”

Qui-Gon grimaces.

Ben studies Qui-Gon’s profile. “Why _did_ you apologize?” He had _hoped_ Qui-Gon might thank his padawan for saving his life, but he had also _feared_ that Qui-Gon might blame him for what he had lost, which is why he had refused to leave the room when asked. Ben could trust Qui-Gon with many things – Obi-Wan Kenobi’s feelings weren’t one of them.

“He deserved it.” Qui-Gon replies.

“His did. I doubt that’s why you did it. You’re of the school of thought that some things should be self-evident which really, unfortunately, rarely are.” Something Qui-Gon Jinn grudgingly retained in common with Yan Dooku. But then, all padawans were products of their Master’s teachings, one way or another.

Qui-Gon looks offended, and then sheepish, and then harrowed. “I would like to be remembered well.” He murmurs reluctantly. “And my padawan _had_ asked me to.”

Ben sighs in explosive exasperation. Of course, of _course_. “Qui-Gon _Jinn_. You are quite possibly the most infuriating jedi alive!”

Qui-Gon’s lips part, brow furrowing, and Ben shakes his head, raking a hand through his hair. “What am I expected to do?” Qui-Gon protests quietly. “I am no longer… I am no longer equal to my calling. I expected to die a jedi, Ben.”

Ben glowers at the ceiling. “Believe me, Qui-Gon, you will.” Ben shifts, turning towards the other master and leaning into his space with dire intent, storm colored eyes meeting startled icy-blue. “What you are expected – no, what you are _going to do_ , Qi-Gon Jinn, is stop insinuating, attempting, and even _thinking_ about _abandoning_ your padawan until she is good and ready to rid herself of you. You are going to start seeing a Soul Healer and you are going to put all of that unconscionable, maddening obstinacy at your disposal to use in picking yourself up and _carrying on_ like the venerable Jedi Master that you are. _So help me_ if I return to find you still _sulking in self pity."_

“Return?” Qui-Gon questions faintly, looking a little wide eyed as Ben heaves himself back up on his crutches. Ben glares at him warningly.

“Train the girl, Qui-Gon.” He orders, “ whether you believe you can or not. She’s stubborn, like her master before her. It will be you, or no one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Let's make progress of resolving some of Qui-Gon's issues!  
> Author: *writes chapter*  
> Author: *stares at chapter*  
> Author: _Why_ is Qui-Gon's character _like that?_
> 
> I don't understand. I try to help this character, and it just... always turns around on me. His character growth is so reluctant.


	4. Chapter 4

“Are you packing that?”

Ben stumbles, knocking his hip into the bedside table, and curses, dropping the book on his bed to rub at the sore spot on his thigh.

“Master?” Obi-Wan steps forward, having all but vaulted through his doorway for some unfathomable reason without announcing himself, catching himself on the frame when Ben startled. Ben offers his padawan a short look.

The healers certainly weren’t wrong when they had scowled and advised him to put himself on the list for a more advanced limb replacement. The basic model, however, was cheaper and would result in him getting a limb much quicker. He could walk, he could run, brace his weight down, but turning, leaning, and any sort of flexibility were very much less than satisfactory.

Luckily, Shmi had already started drawing up designs based on the parts she could scrounge and fabricate and was apparently eager for his appearance on Alderaan so she could actually get her hands on it. At this point, he thinks she was more excited about his limb arriving than he himself.

“What?” Ben says.

Obi-Wan blinks, still hanging off the doorway. “Do you really have to take that book?” His padawan glances at the tome he’d tossed on the bed, his inscrutable and unsettling present from Mother Talzin.

“I’ve been advised to keep it with me.” Ben remarks, puzzled at the young mans displeasure.

“You didn’t take it to Mandalore.” Obi-Wan points out, looking grumpy.

Ben lifts a brow. “Yes I did, I left it on your ship.”

“No, you didn’t.” Obi-Wan gives him a pinched, suspicious look.

“I most certainly did.” Ben replies, faintly amused.

“I went through your things, it wasn’t there.” His padawan insists.

“Obi-Wan – why are we arguing about this?” Ben sighs in exasperation, dropping the subject. He most certainly _had_ left it on his padawans ship, and it had been right where he left it when he collected it again.

“I don’t like it. It’s creepy.”

“It’s – what?” Ben is baffled, to say the least. It’s not an unfair assessment, he supposes, but as to why it had his padawan bristling in such a manner…

“Nevermind.” Obi-Wan mutters, crossing his arms. “Do you need help?”

“I’m perfectly capable of-“ Ben snipes, before realizing that pity is not what his padawan is projecting. “Why are you rushing me?”

Obi-Wan pulls a face. “I miss the Skywalkers.” He says plaintively. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen Anakin, and holocalls just aren’t the same.” He would never admit it in their company, of course, but it was clear that the padawan did favor the eldest Skywalker child, that the bond between them was special.

Ben softens, wistful and wary of fate and brimming with affection and understanding all the same. He gives his padawan a warm look, and Obi-Wan glances away, ears reddening a little at the effusive fondness Ben projects in his direction. “A few more minutes and I’ll be perfectly ready. Do you have all the datachips you need for your courses?”

“Yes, master.” Obi-Wan minces out, having been… distressed, when Ben had told him to compile enough coursework to cover an entire _year_. Ben hoped they wouldn’t be away so long – time was an invaluable and finite resource for him now, but he could not _force_ Obi-Wan into greater understanding.

And Obi-Wan _must_ learn. Ben will tell him everything he needs to know, but Obi-Wan must be ready first.

Just in case.

“And the first aid kit I told you to requisition?” Ben inquires, knowing the cost of such things on the Outer Rim was much higher. He finds it simpler to focus on the practicalities of the ordeal ahead, for the moment, instead of... well, the ordeal ahead. For the _both_ of them.

“Yes, master.” Obi-Wan replies, having mastered the tone of voice which implies the rolling of his eyes.

“Did you get a pressed block of gimmer from Master Yoda?” Ben adds, requested in case either of them would need a little mild pain relief. He pins his padawan with a look for his attitude.

“Yes, Master.” 

“And –“

“And a toolkit, and my canteen, with spare water filters, and spare tunics, and toiletries-“ Obi-Wan rushes him, expelling an impatient breath.

“- including a shaving kit?” Ben lifts a brow, chuffing at Obi-Wan’s impatience. Obi-Wan pauses, brushing one hand across the underside of his jaw. The padawan has been getting whiskers; fine, almost unnoticeable little things, but he’ll need the kit soon enough.

“No.” He mutters sullenly, and then vanishes from Ben’s doorway to correct the lapse.

Ben huffs at his abrupt absence and steels himself to kneel down. His right knee aches with the motion - and likely always would, Essja had informed him, given how close the port was to the joint. Once on his knees, he pulls the battered chest from beneath his bed.

It’s weather worn and unassuming, save for the new lock fasted on its front.

The burdens inside are anything but.

Ben takes a breath, and his fingers hesitate on the latches.

~*~

It’s snowing when they arrive, soft flakes drifting lazily and settling lightly on the ground. Having, at one point, been a military outpost, the Temple of Alderaan had come equipped with a serviceable if somewhat outdated underground hanger fit for a small fleet.

Currently, the hanger is home to Shmi’s _Red Bird_ , two simple Temple shuttles and a couple of donated transports that look to have been stripped for parts. A few of the empty bays look to have been transformed into small workshops, at least one having the familiar looks of a mechanics learning station.

Unfortunately, the hanger does not appear to connect to the facility directly, and they still end up taking a brief walk outside, utterly underprepared for the weather.

Chimes sound when they enter the building through a pair of double doors, and Master Ben aggressively ruffles snow out of his hair, swiping it off his face. Obi-Wan tries not to grin at him too openly for it, shivering a little himself. His layers generally kept him pretty warm, but the silks were _not_ meant to trap heat.

They loiter in the atrium for a few minutes, watching snow fall out the windows, and frost glitter off spray cast by the waterfall across the valley. It’s early winter yet, and the water hasn’t frozen over.

“Oh dear, a pair of troublemakers.”

Obi-Wan and Ben both turn, smiling at a familiar twi’lek crechemaster as she offers them a generous smile, a young alderaani man following her with jovial grace, wearing jedi tunics, but in the grey and white colors favored by Alderaan’s diplomatic services, which makes his brown face and bright smile seem all the warmer in contrast.

“Master Se’sanimma.” Master Ben greets, Obi-Wan bowing with him.

“Master Nasaade, Padawan Kenobi, may I introduce Disciple Pascal. He came in with one of the university tours and sort of never left.” Master Se says brightly, her gaze briefly lifting to the ceiling.

The young man smiles sheepishly.

“You traded in Alderaani Scholarship for Jedi Service?” Obi-Wan inquires, curious. The man isn't spectacularly Force-Sensitive, that Obi-Wan can tell, but considering Mavi Var'de and the unintentional trial posed by Serra Keto taking Shmi's Skywalker's philosophy on Force Mechanics to heart and putting them into practice - inviting her Mandalorian friend into the Temple of the faith that her Force-Sensitivity can be developed into a Jedi's magnitude of power - he wasn't going to point that out. Theoretically, it was perfectly true - one could curate their Force Sensitivity. The Jedi did it - they just started farther ahead in the scale of things. 

It was going to be interesting - and it had so many implications - if their efforts worked out. Having been the one to publish the slow descent into extinction of the of the Order, Obi-Wan was looking forward to all the ways in which the Jedi were defying their own decline.

“I wanted to be an educator.” Pascal explains easily, looking himself amused at his own circumstances. “This is no different, in essence, but it does allow me to escape the family politics of my university education.”

Obi-Wan and Ben share a glance. They can’t really argue with that.

“Welcome to the Temple of Chimes.” Master Se moves on.

Obi-Wan tilts his head and points up. “Because of…?” He inquires, indicating the musical announcement of their arrival. It hadn't escaped his notice either that there had been wind chimes strung outside the doors, tinkling brightly in a chill breeze.

Her lekku twitch. “Precisely. The younglings are enamored.” She informs them. “I’ll show you to the guest dormitories, the dining hall, and the library. Knight Skywalker is currently leading meditation, but she should be free in an hour or so. You are welcome to explore, but be warned if you go outside, there were a pair of wolf-cat’s spotted this morning. They tend to steer clear of us, but they can be dangerous if spooked – or hungry. We tend to keep the younglings inside until they’ve moved on.”

That catches Obi-Wan off guard a little. It’s quite different, he thinks, to have to take into account the weather and the local fauna. Such things were moot on Coruscant.

“What exactly do you mean by university tours?” Master Ben inquires, while Obi-Wan catches glimpses of classrooms through ornate doors and flashes of frosted scenery through thick windows.

“Alderaani scholarship places a heavy importance on community service.” Master Se explains, which surprises neither red-headed jedi. “The Minister for Education has included services to the Jedi Temple of Alderaan as qualifying in that regard. Most often, these tours just end up entertaining the children while we masters work on our developing administration here, but they volunteer to teach lessons and help with some of the more laborious tasks as well.”

Obi-Wan pauses. “Isn’t… Isn’t Queen Breha the Minister for Education?” 

“In that capacity, it is proper to refer to her title as the Lady of House Organa.” Disciple Pascal informs him politely. “But yes.”

Master Ben snorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Short chapter, I know, but i'm posting so i can say I've posted something this week.


	5. Chapter 5

Obi-Wan isn’t sure whether to be thrilled or terrified when Anakin Skywalker says “Watch this!”, blindfolds himself, and then takes a leap into the air. He lands, body tense but balance certain, about half a meter off the ground, feet planted firmly on air.

Under his blindfold, he grins brilliantly in Obi-Wan’s direction. “See! See! I got it, Obi-Wan! Just so long as I don’t _look_ ," the eight-year-old crows.

Obi-Wan is helpless but to smile back, in the face of such boisterous achievement. “You’re doing very well,” Obi-Wan praises, quietly reminding himself that _he_ did not teach Anakin Skywalker Force Structures and that _this cannot be blamed on him_. “Good job, Anakin.”

Anakin whips off the blindfold, blue eyes brilliantly bright. “Really?” his smile quirks to one side, a dimple appearing, full of bashfulness and delight at the praise.

“Really,” Obi-Wan reassures him, and then steps forward and scoops the youngling off his invisible step before he looks down, loses faith, and falls. He swings him around, earning a whoop of joy, before depositing him back on his feet beside his brother. “How about you, Jax?” Obi-Wan inquires, “Leaping without looking?”

The seven year old gives him a placid, dry look and shakes his head slowly.

~ _I’ll keep my feet on the ground, thank you_ , ~ he signs, and Obi-Wan laughs, giving in to the urge to ruffle his bronze curls. Jax swats at his hands, but flushes in pleasure nonetheless.

“Smart kid,” Obi-Wan praises.

“ _Hey_!” Anakin protests, and Jax grins brightly, earning a playful shove and shoving back in turn.

“No _fighting_!” another youngling hollers across the room.

“We’re _not_ ,” Anakin hollers back, turning around and sticking his tongue out at the other boy. The other youngling flushes and crosses his arms, looking away from them with a huff.

“Anakin-” Obi-Wan chides, because that was rude.

A familiar girl with streaky red and blonde hair darts into the room, dragging along her nervous togruta friend and all but launching herself at the Skywalker boys, though her attention appears to be on Obi-Wan himself. Jax catches her with the look of someone used to being knocked into and Anakin frees the togruta boy from her grasp, a fluffy _dakunn_ scampering in their wake and winding around their feet with snuffling noises.

“Etain, Codi,” Obi-Wan greets.

“Obi-Wan,” the red-haired girl grins, amber-green eyes shining.

“Padawan Kenobi,” the little togruta boy greets more formally, reaching down to scoop up his pet as he bows.

“Are you here to take us to Ilum?” Etain blurts out. “Please, please, please!?”

“Ah.” Obi-Wan pauses, surprised and then sheepish. He supposes he and his master became rather the go-to team for Ilum trips in the previous years. “I’m afraid not.”

“But I’m ready for my lightsaber crystal!” The girl pouts. “And you _have_ to be the one to take us! You’re the best!”

Obi-Wan presses a palm to his mouth and tries not to laugh. He’s never heard a single youngling say - after the fact - that they were _glad_ it had been the Naasade-Kenobi team to take them. Master Ben was generally adored right up until the initiates figured out how grueling a taskmaster he could be.

Most forgave him.

Eventually.

“Master Ben and I are going away on a training sabbatical, it may have to be someone else.” Obi-Wan says.

“But-”

“I don’t _want_ someone else to take me to get my crystal,” Anakin blurts out, “I’ll wait until you come back.” He crosses his arms, and Jax copies the gesture, nodding smartly in unison.

Obi-Wan stares at them in surprise, his mouth dropping open slightly before he catches himself and licks his lips. He remembers being their age, bursting with yearning to get his lightsaber crystal – and being quietly left behind as those around him, those with more certain futures among the Jedi, went without him, trip by trip. His chest feels warm and tight, and Obi-Wan smiles softly.

He takes a breath. “Anakin, Jax-”

“Ugh,” Anakin grumbles, crossing his arms, “I know it’s not about what I want, but I want it to be you anyways.”

Obi-Wan looks down at the floor, his smile stretching into a rueful grin as he shakes this head and lowers himself to a knee. He fights down equal parts amusement and admonishment, and finally manages to look up with a somewhat controlled expression. “I may be gone for a year this time. From the way Master Ben is acting, I’m in for something dreadfully difficult and no doubt enlightening.”

Jax nods sympathetically, and Obi-Wan frowns at him in consternation before deciding he’d rather not ask. The seven-year-old smirks, and then stretches forward to pat him on the shoulder. Obi-Wan assumes that means everything will work out.

Anakin shuffles. “But getting our lightsaber crystals is an important part of our journey. It’s special. I’d wait for you,” he says tremulously, eyes wide and brimming with sincerity.

Obi-Wan takes the youngling’s hand, smiling back at him, full of pride and love and wist. “I know you would, Anakin, but you don’t have to. There are plenty of journeys we’ll take together, you and I, and I would never wish to hold you back. If you insist, then I will be honored to take you to Ilum when I can, but it will be just as special if you decide to go with your friends and their escort. We will all be happy for you either way, and no less proud.”

Anakin surges forward and hugs him. Obi-Wan wraps him up in the embrace, catching a glimpse of Etain’s dramatic eye-roll as she sags into Jax and starts tugging on the back of Anakin’s shirt.

“Okay,” Anakin mumbles into Obi-Wan’s collar.

“Okay,” Obi-Wan ruffles his hair, and Anakin bounces back, blonde locks wild.

“We should take you to the hot springs!”

“Hot springs!” Several younglings hear that and jump up, excited. Obi-Wan is intrigued.

“Hot springs?” he questions.

~*~

“Master Koon,” Ben greets, looking up from the padded bench in the solarium he’s currently ensconced in, Omi Skywalker drooling in a puddle of content on his chest. “I hear you’ve-”

Ben gets a look at him, and the words die in his throat.

Lake blue eyes look out from a soft orange and white face, the togruta toddler happily lounged in the crook of the Kel Dor’s arm.

Plo rumbles with slight curiosity at his pause, and moves to settle into the chair adjacent to his bench, hanging planters framing their little alcove. “Master Naasade, may I introduce-”

“Ahsoka Tano.” Ben says breathlessly.

She blinks, and then her face splits into a wide, sharp grin, her baby teeth sharper than her adult teeth will be when they grow in.

“Hello Ahsoka.” Ben says softly. _Ahsoka, Ahsoka, Ahsoka_.

“ ‘Ello,” she chirps back, and then points at Omi, snoozing on Ben’s chest and keeping him effectively occupied while Shmi made off with his artificial leg. “Baby.” She looks up at Master Plo and stands, teetering on his lap and balancing one hand on his shoulder, little chest puffing out in pride. “ _I’m_ not a baby,” she says, pointing at herself.

Plo chuckles, and Ben feels warmth spool from his chest and fill the room. “I don’t know, little ‘Soka,” Plo replies with an air of casualness, “You are very small.”

She scowls fiercely, “You’re too big!”

Ben laughs, and the little girl stares at him before bursting into a peal of reciprocal giggles. Ben’s chest hitches, and he sits up with a little effort, Omi startling wide awake and blinking owlishly. At a year old, she is a rosy cheeked, softly chubby little cherub with a wild fluff of dark hair and eyes that are shading into a fragile green.

“Ben,” Plo rumbles softly, concerned, as Ben’s chest keeps hitching, his eyes stinging as he wrestles down roiling emotions into something that won’t frighten two very young, very sensitive little girls in their midst. The kel dor master reaches over, laying a hand against his arm, offering calm support, and Ahsoka stares at him with the fixed focus of a Shili predator, full of innocent concern. Omi burbles, spitting, and works her fingers into his tabards, twisting and tugging on them. Ben curls his arms around one little girl, and stares back at the other, making himself still, focusing on the warmth against his chest, on that specific shade of blue, until everything is clear and calm again, like still water, like an airless desert night.

“I’m alright,” he says, a tad roughly.

Plo makes a doubtful sound, and then Ben has his arms full of two little girls, as the kel dor abruptly deposits Ahsoka Tano in his lap. Ahsoka makes a high pitched trill, short and sweet and startled, and then settles. She sticks her hand in Ben’s beard and makes a face.

“Fur’s not soft,” she sighs, and pulls back her hand.

Ben may cry yet. “No,” he replies, putting a bracing hand on her tiny back to keep her from toppling backwards as she twists and leans and looks around. “Beard’s usually aren’t.”

She blinks at him. “What bird?”

Ben smiles and runs his fingers through his beard. “This bird,” he replies.

Her mouth drops open. “You isn’t a bird!”

“Am I not?” Ben queries, arching a brow.

“No!” she says shrilly, trilling.

Omi shrieks, delighted, and reaches for the little togruta. Ahsoka grabs her lekku, startled, and peers at the baby. Omi goes still, staring back, and then smiles again, all gummy and wet. Ahsoka smiles shyly back.

Then she looks back up at Ben. “That’s Knight Shmi’s baby,” she informs him succinctly, “she’s Mimi.”

“She is,” Ben agrees, nodding sagely, utterly unable to look away from his once grandpadawan.

Ahsoka nods, and then very carefully reaches over and pats Mimi on the head. "No bites,” she says.

The youngest Skywalker shrieks again, bouncing as she tries to catch Ahsoka’s hand.

Ben looks at the both of them, holds the both of them, and his eyes get blurry, his chest tight and bursting.

A small finger pokes him in the cheek, and Ben tries to blink clearly. Ahsoka peers at him, and then looks at Omi, and then up at Master Plo.

“Naptime?” she asks, and then turn back to Ben. “Naps make you feel better,” she says sagely.

Ben huffs, the sound watery, and offers a bemused look up at Master Plo. “She thinks I need a nap,” he gripes.

“Little ‘Soka is very wise,” Plo replies serenely.

Ben takes a breath, the image of the young woman this toddler grows up to be rippling behind his eyes like reflections on water – precious, the impressions permanent, but the details faded with time. Gods, he misses her. “I suppose we can’t argue with that, can we?”

Ahsoka shakes her head, grinning with mischief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some fluff. I will eventually get to the plot.


	6. Chapter 6

“What about a rocket booster?” Anakin suggests.

“In my foot?” Ben remarks skeptically.

“It would be so wizard!” Shmi’s eight-year-old grins brilliantly, and Ben shakes his head, chuckling, still moving through his lightsaber forms at a steady pace while Shmi gauges the artificial limb’s responsiveness and range of motion, noting adjustments she’ll need to make as they go.

That Ben manages his forms on one not entirely adjusted artificial limb and with her gangly eldest child clinging to his shoulders does not surprise her, but she does find it amusing, even if Anakin is being less than helpful. He’s enthusiastic at least and she’ll encourage that.

Ben twists and she can see a grimace tug at his face. She makes a note regarding the tensile quality of the limb, and stretching.

“Are you really gonna be gone for a year?” Anakin asks plaintively. Ben’s gaze shadows, and his expression tightens. Shmi isn’t certain if it’s because of the leg or the question or both.

“Going to be?” Ben corrects gently, “Perhaps. It depends on how well I teach and how well Obi-Wan learns.”

“Obi-Wan is brilliant,” Anakin says firmly. Ben cracks a surprised smile and reaches up to tap on Anakin’s cheek. He wobbles a little, and Anakin scrunches up his face and squirms closer to Ben’s shoulder, adjusting his grip as he slides a little. Ben stalwartly lets him figure it out, hard knobby knees and choking shirt-collars and all. “You are too.”

“That’s a kind thing to say,” Ben replies, “Thank you.”

Anakin rolls his eyes, like it should be _obvious_ and Ben is being silly in not thinking so too.

Shmi smiles, catching her son's eye and wiggling her nose at him. He grins brightly, hugging Ben a little tighter.

“Where are you going? Obi-Wan says he doesn’t know,” Anakin prods. Ben shifts forward and there is a slight hitch in the motion. Shmi will have to adjust the range of the joint.

“Somewhere out of the way where I can train my padawan with focus.”

Anakin narrows his eyes. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was,” Ben corrects, “It just wasn’t the one you wanted. It’s a secret, Anakin.”

“But why?”

“So people can’t bother us before we’re ready.”

“Oh.”

Ben catches Shmi’s eye, and Shmi purses her lips. He’s told _her_ where they’re going, so that she knows where to find them, and how to reach them – she alone - and Shmi thoroughly disapproves. Tatooine is not a place for Jedi. There will come a day when the jedi will go to Tatooine. When Shmi will take them there, to do as Jedi are meant to do – she has promised, Shaak Ti has promised, and Shmi will see it through. That promise is a burning star in her chest, guiding her forward. But Ben…Ben has been there before, and Shmi remembers the state he was in when he left that place – when he took her from that place.

Shmi does not want to see him in that state again.

But Ben, in spite of her protests that he should find any other desert, any other world, had insisted, for reasons he said he couldn’t quite explain.

 _It has to be Tatooine,_ he’d said, almost helplessly.

 _Why?_ Shmi had demanded, burdened with his trust, _Why? Why?_

He’d given her a bitter, unreadable smile and reached up to touch her cheek, fingertips grazing the sandstorm scars that still marred the skin there. _Because it is Tatooine_.

If that had been an answer, it was one only Ben understood.

“Ng,” Ben grunts, a small, displeased sound of pain, and Anakin slides off his back, landing on his feet with a bounce and grabbing Ben’s hand in concern. Twisting was definitely a problem.

“I can fix it,” Shmi sighs. Ben, a shade paler than he had been a minute ago, gives her a charming smile.

“Of that I have no doubts,” he says brightly, taking her hand when she offers and taking careful steps over to the nearest seat, the limb definitely jarred out of alignment.

“If I had a robot leg, I’d want a rocket booster,” Anakin says abruptly, hovering anxiously.

Ben barks a laugh that is a little too sharp.

“I rather hope all your limbs remain intact,” the red-head informs him.

“Well, yeah,” Anakin shrugs, flopping over Ben's lap and watching Shmi work on detaching the errant limb, “but if I _had_ one.”

Ben makes a complicated expression and resolves it by scooping an arm under Anakin and pulling him up for a hug, both arms wrapping tightly around the little boy, his brow bowed over Anakin’s wild, messy blonde hair. Shmi’s fingers still at their work, watching Ben, watching his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, feeling _loss_ waft quietly into the Force.

Anakin, confused but heartfelt, hugs him back.

Ben looks up and inadvertently catches her eye, and his gaze skitters away. Shmi’s knuckles tighten around her tools, and she wonders why the look in that blue-grey gaze is _shame_.

Shmi loosens her finger and places one hand over his too-hot knee. They’ve overdone it with the exercises. She squeezes a little, and he manages to look back at her, his emotions closed off.

Shmi holds his gaze. _We’ll talk,_ her look says. Before he leaves, she’ll make sure they get to talk, just the two of them.

Ben looks down and nods.

~*~

“I have to admit, this makes getting up at midnight worth it,” Obi-Wan breathes out, his breath steaming a little on the air, small clouds wafting up from the mug of cocoa in his hands. They’re on the sixth roof along with a few other groups, bundled up in robes and blankets around a few portable heaters that are gradually losing the battle against the oncoming winter. Above them, the entire galaxy stretches out in a glory of stars on velvet night.

The first night they’d woken up to the midnight chimes, Obi-Wan had ascertained that no emergency was going on, rolled over, and gone back to sleep. The second night, he discovered the Temple of Chimes ritual of snacks and cocoa and a second bedtime.

Presently, he was sequestered on the rooftop with a cup of cocoa in his hands, a rapidly melting Beru Kara sinking back into sleep against his chest, and a pair of nightbrothers for company.

Apparently, they’d arrived a month ago and their master showed no signs of being extracted from the creche anytime soon. Fortunately, however, there was plenty to keep the pack of padawans busy, and assisting the younglings in their early lessons was doing the excellent double-duty of reaffirming the foundation of the nightbrothers’ own sporadic education.

“There were no stars to see on Coruscant,” Talon agrees, trying to seem aloof and failing utterly considering he has Mog in the crook of one arm, wide ears twitching, hands jerking as he fights sleep.

“The traffic was pretty at night,” Howl remarks, the burly brown skin, blue-tattooed zabrak almost melting into the darkness behind him, save his bright green eyes and the fair skinned mirialan girl blinking wondrously up at the sky from her perch against his chest, looking utterly awake.

“But it’s no replacement for _stars,”_ Talon argues, “The sky seemed too small, like the world couldn’t breathe.”

Obi-Wan blinks at the almost poetic – if unnerving – description, absently recalling that the Dathomiri had a much different sense of the depths of the Living Force than most. Given the power of Dathomir itself, it probably shouldn’t surprise him that they felt the Force of planets a bit more keenly than he did.

Howl just shrugs. “We live with what we have,” he says simply, a pragmatic outlook born of a lifetime of privation.

Talon sighs dramatically, slouching against the railing along the edge of the rooftop courtyard and gently teasing Mog’s stubby fingertips when the youngling forces his eyes open again, little fingers wiggling. Mog tips his head up and offers the nightbrother a narrow look. Talon offers him a narrow look in turn, and Mog snuggles down grumpily. Fortunately, he seems to have developed a bit better tolerance for cold.

But not that much.

Obi-Wan shifts, taking a sip, and Beru’s berry-red hair tickles his chin, her head rolling against his shoulder. He smiles, briefly pressing his cheek to her brow. She’s grown much in the last four years, and he can see her mother in her face. He wonders if some day he ought to tell her that, or if it would be kinder not to.

He didn’t think about it much when he was an initiate, but now… Obi-Wan knows now that he looks like his sister. He imagines the brother he never met looks just alike too. But sometimes he wonders about their parents – his parents. If he takes after his mother or his father, or both of them, or neither. When he tries to picture his father, he guiltily usually imagines that the man looks a little like Master Ben.

Maybe more than a little.

The rumors going around in Mandalorian Space don’t help.

He tries not to think about it.

“Mine’s asleep,” Obi-Wan informs his companions quietly, “I’m going to take her back in.”

Talon huffs and nods, trying to coax Mog into keeping his eyes closed. Howl looks down at Bariss and her bright eyes fixed upon the night’s sky and sighs.

Obi-Wan tries not to grin too smugly. “I’ll bring you more cocoa,” he promises.

~*~

Obi-Wan is in the middle of teaching a crèche-class about the early history of the Galactic Republic when the Queen of Alderaan slips in the back of the room, settles down next to a distractible little rodian, and offers him a smile.

Obi-Wan only falters a little bit, and then continues with the lesson. When he pauses for questions, she raises her hand along with a dozen younglings.

Obi-Wan does not call on her first. Her smile gets a little wider, and he can feel his ears start turning red.

“Queen Breha?”

“Can you speak a little more on the function and formation of the Jedi Order before they were tied to the Galactic Republic?”

“I... during the wars?” Obi-Wan inquires, balking at trying to explain the utter mess of confusion and chaos that the thousand years of history prior to the Galactic Republic had been. The Jedi had all been of the same issuance, but they hadn’t been a uniform people so much as a scattered collection of people all adhering to the same foundations. Some had been raised in temples, others in the field, others by… by families, though those records were particularly obscure. Some had been bound to singular planets, others were nomadic, and some had just been following the endless battlefield, one world to another. Trying to explain how that all had worked...

Obi-Wan doesn’t even know how it worked, exactly, except that it did. They’d had the Force, and the Jedi calling, and somehow, that had been enough.

“I suppose, but perhaps I should clarify that I am curious as to how they operated not necessarily before the Republic, but _outside_ of it. It was much smaller in the beginning, was it not? The Jedi didn’t simply abandon the rest of the galaxy for a single government, not even one they themselves helped create,” Breha prompts him, gaze shining and immutable, like polished stone.

“We didn’t.” Obi-Wan nods, glancing away from her to look over his curious class of younglings. “There were more of us then. We didn’t have to decide who we could and could not help.”

Obi-Wan knows that is one of the current arguments going on in the Council. Master Gallia and Master Fay are both proponents of expanding the Order’s reach, of picking up the responsibilities they had allowed to simply fall by the by over the centuries, to the worlds and peoples and systems beyond the edges of the Republic’s authority. There aren’t even enough Jedi to handle the Republic’s cries for help, really, but Adi Gallia’s stern argument sits in the back of his mind. It isn’t just that the worlds in need ask the Jedi for the Republic's help. It is that the Republic stepped beyond simply providing the Jedi with oversight – the Republic's become their gatekeeper. In more recent times, this has gone far enough that worlds have to ask the Republic for the Jedi’s help, and that is not how it was ever meant to be.

 _We are not a bureaucratic commodity_.

At least, they aren’t supposed to be. But that is what they had become really, and it is – it is wrong, in a way that feels uncomfortable and frustrating and difficult to combat.

Obi-Wan doesn’t exactly want to explain this to the younglings, because the current state of the Order is sad and frightening for all that they are putting forth so much effort to change things, to turn back the decline of their people and their way of life.

But they are looking at him and awaiting an explanation, awaiting answers and assurances, and Obi-Wan has to say something. Obi-Wan glances at Breha, and she offers him a supportive smile, and a brow raised in expectation.

So Obi-Wan makes the effort, and tells them what he knows, occasionally referring to lecture notes and a few hasty searches on his datapad. He explains, and he answers questions, and he tries not to let the enormity of the differences between what they used to be capable of and what they are now _hurt_ , glad that the initiates before him aren’t quite old enough to understand that ache, aren’t quite exposed enough to realize how much is missing, how much has been lost.

The initiates aren’t.

But Breha Organa is.

His lecture runs long. A crèchemaster’s padawan stops by but doesn’t interrupt. The younglings ask an enormous amount of questions, many of which he doesn’t know how to answer. He is guiltily relieved when the meal chime sounds and the younglings all jump up to put away their cushions. His lesson can apparently overtake their next one without consequence, but meal-time is non-negotiable.

“Thank you, Obi-Wan,” Breha approaches him, a vision of gauzy white lace and dark blue velvet and a dark bronze shawl. “I’m sorry about that.”

Obi-Wan looks at her. He doesn’t think she is, actually – not about the asking, at least, but perhaps about how answering made him feel.

“Queen Breha,” he greets politely, turning up his palms and bowing his head, “All woes are immaterial in the light that is your presence.” He smiles, practicing his charm.

She laughs, light and delighted. “Very good, Padawan Kenobi,” she teases. His smile grows more cheeky.

“How are you?” Obi-Wan inquires politely, offering his arm to escort her, which she takes with a grace that a thousand other monarchs try to imitate and fail. “We saw Bail on Chandrila and heard you’ve been touring the Outer Rim?”

“Not touring per se,” Breha replies, her eyes lighting up when they step into the corridor and a small gaggle of excited younglings race past, silent bells dancing from braided ribbons strung on their belts. Apparently, they had found a box of bells and thought it was a perfect adornment to members of the Temple of Chimes. Apparently, the crèchemasters had been about driven mad by the incessant ringing, and had the bell weights removed to silence them. Apparently, the younglings had taken this as a challenge and learned how to ring the empty bells with the Force.

Given that it was an ingenious little trick and had required focus and self-discipline to accomplish, the crèchemasters had been forced to concede and congratulate the younglings on such an accomplishment. They were very proud.

One enterprising crèchemaster then had the ingenuity to make it a matter of pride to earn the bell-weights back – by proving they can move with the poise and comportment required so that the bells do not ring while they walk. Those who can accomplish it get their Force bell and a ringing bell, and walk with the quiet dignity of little masters.

On occasion.

The Temple of Chimes, Obi-Wan is delighted to observe, is rapidly developing its own set of unique traditions. It almost made him wistful that he isn’t more a part of it, growing up like this.

By virtue of Alderaani past-times, several visitors had endeavored to teach the younglings the art of embroidery. As such, it has become fashionable to embroider stars and flowers and such things on their robes and tunics. They are very happy to show off their developing skill, tiny colorful additions made to their standard-issue clothes.

Master Koon’s robes, he noticed, are collecting a small galaxy of stars around the hem. Anakin wanted to embroider a gecko on Obi-Wan’s robe, but given that it’s Concordian silk, he had to decline. He gave Anakin his spare synth-cloth shirt instead and told the boys to have fun.

Breha squeezes his arm a little and they keep walking. “I’ve been checking up on our sentient welfare programs in the Outer Rim, as well as a few newer projects in the distant regions. Making new friends, that sort of thing.”

“Is that why you are interested in how the Jedi used to…”

“Part of it,” Breha nods, “But you hear such tales out in the galaxy. The Jedi’s reputation is quite obscure in the farther reaches, you know? It’s rare for the common person to actually ever see one, let alone meet them. It skews perception.”

“Some think we’re charlatans and others think we’re all but gods,” Obi-Wan remarks, “We’re warned, before we start taking missions, about what others might expect of us, and what we should expect of ourselves.”

Breha smiles and kisses his cheek, which sends a flush up his neck and over his ears. “I find the reality much more pleasing than any reputation. My husband agrees,” she assures him, “Your people are good people, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“We do our best,” Obi-Wan replies, trying to seem serene as he discreetly tries to wipe at his cheek to ensure she left no lipstick behind. Humor dances in her eyes, and she takes no pity on the young man.

She hums, nodding as Disciple Pascal passes by and pauses to bow. “Now, tell me what it is I’m hearing about you and Ben trying to disappear for a year?”

“I know nothing,” Obi-Wan protests, earning an amused look and a doubtful tilt of her head. “Really, Queen Breha, he hasn’t told me anything other than what to pack.”

She hums again. “Well then, clearly I’m interrogating the wrong Jedi. Bail and I are most disappointed that we all don’t see each other more often.”

Obi-Wan dares not shrug in her presence, but his expression quirks in a manner that conveys much the same thing. “Duty calls us all in different directions,” he offers.

She sighs patiently at him. “Must you be so reasonable?”

Obi-Wan smirks cheekily. “Why Queen Breha, do you wish me to be _unreasonable_?”

“I wish, at times, for you to be selfish,” Breha replies sincerely, turning towards him and taking his hand, looking him over in a manner that makes him feel as if his every flaw is observed and allowed for, a strange sort of admiration, of unremitting acceptance. “You and Ben both, Obi-Wan. Your people. I fear duty may be the death of you.”

Obi-Wan, stopping as she does, holds her hands and stares into her eyes and wonders - and there is caution in that wonder, there is wariness - but all the wondering doesn’t change the answer. “We’re Jedi. It’s who we are.”

“I know,” she replies, cool and resolute as the morning dawn, “and the damning thing is that this is why I love you as I do.”

Obi-Wan falters, uncertain as to the weight behind those words, the hardness. Breha was not a soft woman, but this seemed… “Breha?”

She looks away, out the window, across the dusting of snow and the fog seeping around the edge of the valley. After a moment her lips twitch, and she looks back at him. “Is that all it takes?”

“Beg pardon?”

“To get you to drop my title, I simply have to tell you I love you?” She looks back at him, and whatever it was she wished to hide is hidden, all that is left is the glory of her, as dazzling and dangerous as sunlight off glacier snow.

“Ah – I – “

She smirks, and Obi-Wan is left trying to catch up.


	7. Chapter 7

_ |Do you think we have a future, you and I? Together, I mean.| _

Obi-Wan stares at the message, feeling the query curl around his heart and squeeze tight. He wants to see her, to hear her, but Satine had been too busy for holo-calls of late, and in a way, the messages are easier. They stay, for one, tangible in a way a holo-call isn’t. They hurt less, for another. Seeing her aches in a way the messages don’t, makes missing her all the sharper a sensation.

He’s dealing with it.

The padawan is tempted to ask Breha Organa how her husband’s absence doesn’t drive her mad, but he’s not sure she’ll have an answer that can help him. She and Bail Organa may suffer being worlds apart, but they are almost constantly in contact over one secure form of communication or another. Also, he thinks it’s easier for them – they were wed, they held the same obligations to Alderaan, they can always go back to each other, in a way Obi-Wan and Satine simply cannot, and – and he is certain that Breha Organa has a stronger heart than he does.

Also, she would tease him mercilessly in the midst of offering him advice, and he’s not quite that desperate.

_ |I think the galaxy will always need Jedi, and the Jedi will always have me. I think the Mando’ade will always need their Jorad’alor, and that you will always see to your people before all else. But I think that leaves room for us, in time.| _ Obi-Wan replied.

He hopes so. He dreams of it, some days. Of a day when the threat of the Sith doesn’t hang like a dark shroud over the Jedi, a day when Mandalore has been brought to stability, no longer teetering on the edges of collapse, their people risen from the ashes of civil war.

A day maybe where the stars and the fate of the Order aren’t constantly pulling at him, where her people aren’t in such desperate need of her, where, at least for a little while, nothing matters more than the two of them being together. Where they can just  _ be together _ .

_ |In time.| _

Her message blinks, still active, and Obi-Wan feels a warmth settle in his chest, the words like a promise, reading like  _ I love you. _

A promise,and a painfully wistful one too. But he tries not to focus on that.

“Obi-Wan!”

_ That _ voice ringing off the glass roof of the solarium atop the library has him looking up to see Aayla Secura darting across the antique wooden floor, trellised fruit vines and towers of potted herbs rustling in her wake as she darts between them with true twi’lek grace.

Obi-Wan drops his datapadd on the cushion-topped bench for safety and lurches to his feet, catching her as she leaps at him with a flying hug, glad he’s not wearing his chest-plate at the moment. Anakin had bruised himself with that very same maneuver, and Obi-Wan had decided to leave off all but his vambraces and armored boots after that.

“Aayla!” Obi-Wan beams, glad to see her, tickled that her initiate whites had blue mynocks stitched across the hem and feeling just a touch of heartache at the ribbon laces around her lekku. It was a very specific shade of yellow. “I was hoping you’d get back in time, how was the field trip?”

A research station off the coast had offered the Temple the same opportunity it offered to schools across Alderaan – the opportunity to take the younglings on a week-long trip to one of their underwater Ocean Observatories and learn a bit of elementary Marine Biology. They’d been delighted to accept.

“It was amazing! I almost got eaten by a giant cephalopod, but it spat my pod back out.” She grins.

“That sounds fun.” Obi-Wan replies brightly. She nods, and then wiggles until Obi-Wan sets her down.

“I was sent to fetch you for dinner.” She says abruptly, tucking her hands in her sleeves and tilting her head up like a little diplomat. She ruins the effect by bouncing on her heels a little, but still, her energetic tendencies were far mellower than some.

“Of course.” Obi-Wan nods. “Thank you.”

She nods smartly and turns on heel, leading the way with as much poise as she could muster. There were two bells hanging off her belt, so Obi-Wan could assume that she could muster quite a bit.

He watches the ribbon on her lekku catch light as she walks, the appendages swaying slightly with her gate, an easy, relaxed motion of a twi’lek at ease.

Aayla Secura is nearly eleven years old and destined for knighthood – everyone was sure enough of that that she had already been to Ilum, her lightsaber hanging proudly off her belt. The Councils had already hashed out how the transition from Initiate to Disciple should occur, based on their reaching the age of apprenticability and on completing their basic primary education. At any point past the age equivalent of ten, a youngling could be transitioned back to the Temple of Coruscant – or elsewhere – in the hopes of catching the eye of a potential master while they advance to the next level of their education.

Any eligible Initiate is offered the transition whenever a transport happens to be departing in the right direction. She has refused to go every time. Obi-Wan knows she’s waiting for Quinlan, with absolutely no promise that he’ll ever come back. As far as most are aware Quinlan Vos was a fallen padawan who was denied knighthood and vanished.

Obi-Wan, at least, knows better, and he is one of the lucky few. Aayla isn’t - all she has is faith and stubbornness, which she is pitied and snubbed for in turns. The insults don’t seem to affect her – she’s faced far worse than childish scorn. But the pity…

She’s gotten into more than a few altercations. Shmi and the other crèchemasters assign her to do handstands and recitations. Tholme, when he’s present to serve as the crèche’s interim battlemaster for basic combat instruction, makes her drink  _ afke. _ Of the two, Tholme is more effective in eliciting contrition.

Obi-Wan supposes it does serve to point out that Tholme raised  _ Quinlan. _

Given the heritage of the Temple of Chimes, most of the boarding is in multi-bed dormitories, including for the guests. The crèchemasters, however, have private quarters in what used to be professor’s suites, and before them, officer housing. Shmi, though not officially a crèchemaster, was awarded the same luxury.

They’re taking advantage of this to have a private family dinner. She’s nearly done with tweaking Master Ben’s prosthetic leg, and once she was, they would be off to… wherever Master Ben had decided they were off to.

Obi-Wan has let his master keep a lot of secrets over the years. This one was perhaps the most annoying.

It also fills Obi-Wan with a lot more personal dread. He  _ remembers _ his early training quite clearly. Having Master Ben’s complete uninhibited focus was… trying, to say the least. Rewarding, in the end, but definitely trying.

He tips wildly between thrilled excitement and nervous anticipation. He’ll be a different caliber of Jedi when they’re through – of that, he has no doubt.

“Obi-Wan!” Anakin’s shrill exclamation sings out before Obi-Wan even manages to let himself and Aayla in. When he does, he finds Anakin sprawled across the floor of the living area, kicking his feet in the air while watching Jax and Ben play holo-chess, and sitting on the couch behind them, Omi pinching her lekku with spit-covered hands –

“Shaak Ti!” Obi-Wan grins, taken utterly by delighted surprise at the sight of the silver-eyed master, noticing that in place of her robe was a hand-woven vestment of rich red Dathomiri silk, just a few shades darker than her shili red dress, glimmering with a wine-dark sheen.

She smiles beautifully at him, eyes alight and expression unfettered – showing off her sharper teeth with simple pleasure. He thinks about the unreserved nature of the Nightsisters, and doesn’t wonder at all about the shift in demeanor. A little time with the Jedi again will no doubt mellow such displays, but for the moment – Obi-Wan enjoys the openness of her feelings.

So too, it seems, does Omi, as she tips her head back and giggles with happy joy. Shaak Ti taps her on the nose fondly.

Aayla bounces over to flop down next to Jax and Master Ben’s game, the Jedi Master in question stroking his beard and eyeing his opponent with a furrowed brow. Jax has his chin propped in his hands, his expression some cross between smug and serene. Obi-Wan chortles and turns just in time to step out of Shmi’s way as she and Tholme come through the door.

Unlike the Temple of Coruscant, they do not have private kitchens here. Still, given that what she hands him is a heavy tureen of slow-cooked desert curry with a bread basket on top, and that the side dishes Tholme is carrying are all pre-prepared and served cold – he interprets that their disappearance all afternoon to ‘prepare for dinner’ had been a thinly veiled excuse for privacy.

Shmi catches his inadvertently made assumption just from the twitch of his eyebrow and gives him a warning look. Obi-Wan grins, the heavy crockery in his hands providing an effective shield from retribution.

“Shmi,” Shaak Ti trills out, gaze flickering with amusement when she meets first her former padawan’s sharp brown gaze, and then Tholme’s. See, Obi-Wan wasn’t the only one.

“Shaak. Boys. Ben.” Shmi elbows past him regardless and Obi-Wan dodges and moves to set the tureen down on the low table Ben and Jax had pushed out of the way so they could play their game on the floor.

“Who’s winning?” Shmi pauses on her way to greet her former master, brushing a hand first over Jax’s hair, then Anakin’s on her way to the couch. Shaak Ti catches her hand easily, fingers twining together as the two women meet. Omi tries to join in, grabbing their clasped hands with a look of puzzled concentration, like they might be hiding something between them.

“Jax hasn’t decided yet,” Anakin supplies. Master Ben huffs and then ruefully shrugs. That was what he got for playing against a psychic.

Obi-Wan catches Master Tholme’s eye while Aayla starts chattering about her field trip, and Shmi passes Omi from Shaak Ti to Ben, so Shaak Ti can get up.

“I ran into an errant friend on our last mission,” Obi-Wan says simply, quietly – just for the two of them to hear. “They’re doing alright. Misses home, though.”

Tholme’s expression gives nothing away, but when he moves past Obi-Wan to pick up Omi to free Ben and help him to his feet, he pauses to lay a hand on the teenager’s arm and squeeze in gratitude.

Obi-Wan smiles faintly and rounds past the adults to scoop up Jax, who wasn’t moving to join the table for food, and give Anakin a nudge. Anakin squawks, Jax reaching for the holo-chess set like if he can  _ just make one more move –  _

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll get the chance to trounce him thoroughly  _ after _ dinner,” Obi-Wan says. Jax still pouts, but then Aayla starts making big nom-nom whooshing noises - made just a little more compelling by her accent - as she explains how she was almost eaten, and that seems to catch his attention.

The Force seems sweeter, with all of them together, warm and golden, seeping through the room, the people in it, soaking into the walls. Obi-Wan breathes in the smell of spices and fresh bread and takes his place at his master’s side, letting out a sigh of content.

Master Ben offers him a warm look, leaning into him for stability as he moves to slip a piece of fruit out of a dish and pass it to Omi, who goes absolutely silent at the offering of a treat. Obi-Wan has the feeling that that’s because someone – or, he supposes, a pair of someone’s - have taught her to be quiet while they shared with her sweets they likely weren’t supposed to.

Tholme sighs, as juice dribbles down the girls chin, and Anakin helpfully fetches him a cloth.

“So, Master Ti, any stories from Dathomir?” Obi-Wan inquires.

Silver eyes gleam, and she starts by explaining that the Nightsisters had very quickly learned that Jedi had  _ no idea _ how magick was supposed to work, and the younger Dathomiri had delighted in seeing how far they could push into ridiculousness before the Jedi figured out they were being teased.

Apparently, pretty far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: So I posted a time-line/age reference in the Appendices series for those of you who are interested.


	8. Chapter 8

“Ben,” Shmi says softly.

He hums a little, laid back on her work-table with his leg up in a prop so she can reconnect it and do the last little adjustments, one arm tucked up behind his head. Shmi clicks the casing on his prosthetic limb close and tightens it down before rolling the protective sleeve up over the port and over his slightly swollen knee. She lets her hand rest there, just above the joint, until he opens his blue-grey eyes and looks at her.

He catches her patient look and winces, the expression somewhat guilty. Shmi helps him sit up, lifting his leg out of the prop and pulling him upright as he turns. They’re alone in the work-shop she’s made out of a small, empty bay in the hanger, the hour late.

“Obi-Wan is nervous about what you have ahead of you, but he seems assured that whatever he’s about to face will make him ready for his trials. That’s what he believes this is,” Shmi says simply, having watched the boy flit from one distraction to another and brood anxiously in between over the last several days, “So why is it that you don’t seem reassured about what is ahead of you at all?”

If she has to outright state it, she would say Ben seems like he is preparing himself for grief. But Shmi does not think she has to say it.

“Obi-Wan isn’t exactly wrong,” Ben replies, a touch dryly. His hands clutching the edge of her work-table, however, are tensed tightly.

Shmi looks into his eyes and holds his gaze, even if he doesn’t appear to want to hold hers. “Knighting him won’t make that boy leave you, Ben. He loves you,” Shmi states flatly.

The cinnamon-haired man swallows, looking down. “I’ve kept secrets from the day we met, Shmi Skywalker. Secrets he has a right to know. Secrets  _ you _ have a right to know.”

He attempts to look up, but doesn’t seem quite capable of meeting her eyes before his gaze drops again. “And once you know them, I’m not sure either of you could bear to still love me.”

The man is morose, but there is more certainty and apology bleeding through his voice than the bitter self-loathing that makes him think less of himself than he ought, and that makes her denial stick in her throat, trapped on her breath. She knows too much of the horrors of the galaxy, of the darkness that can hide in people, to promise anyone absolute forgiveness. Not even Ben, who brought her to freedom.

She takes his chin in hand and forces him to look at her, and there is that look she has seen in glances for the last five years – fear, shame, guilt, misery; as if she could shatter him with a word.

“You’re going to tell him,” Shmi states. It’s not a question.

“When I’m certain he’s ready for Knighthood, when he no longer needs me,” Ben replies quietly.

Shmi doubts that that boy will ever truly not need him, the same as Anakin and Ji-Kest and Omi will never truly not need their mother, but she doesn’t argue that now.

“And me?” Shmi questions, releasing him to lay her hand on his chest instead, feeling his heart pound beneath skin and bone.

He can’t bear to look at her, gaze shifting away. His eyes grow wet, and his next breath comes stuttered. “Can… can you wait longer?” he pleads.

Shmi decides, in that moment, that she does not want to stop loving him. From the vibroknife tucked into her sleeves to the little girl with muted green eyes, there are many gifts and blessings in her life that Shmi Skywalker  would not have known if not for this man with all his wounded edges and fathomless kindness, all his scheming and all his guilt. She has a selfish heart and she wants to love him.

To hold on to that love, she can wait till all the stars burn out and a thousand years more for whatever dread secret he believes she needs to know.

“I can wait,” Shmi says simply, reaching up to dry the almost-tears from his lashes with the edge of her sleeve the same as she would for any of the younglings. He chokes on the sound of relief that lurches out of his chest and tips forward to slip off the work-table and wrap her up in a fragile hug. There is nothing fragile in the way Shmi hugs him back.

“I’m sorry,” Ben whispers into her hair.

Shmi steps back and looks at him softly, taking one hand and squeezing. “I know,” she replies sincerely, and that is enough for her to know for now.

She takes another step back and directs him to do his movements. She  _ has _ just adjusted his leg – she’d like to know she’s done the work properly.

~*~

“He’s scared,” Shmi says quietly.

“I know,” Obi-Wan replies, pausing in the midst of sulkily disassembling the comm-link in his vambrace, having been informed he wasn’t allowed to take it with him. Not his comm, not his ship…

He’s been doing a lot of practiced breathing over the last few hours, wrestling with the most basic lessons on materialism and  _ letting go. _ It’s not as if he’s really losing any of it – it will be in Shmi’s care, and that is just about better than anything else, because Shmi will no doubt tinker with and upgrade things while he is gone. It’s just…

Obi-Wan takes another practiced breath.

“I’ve been ignoring it,” he finishes replying, glancing over at Shmi, who has Omi swaddled against her back while she does data-work, sorting schedules and writing assessments and the like. There is a series of offices tucked down a corridor on the first level, and Shmi makes good use of one, Obi-Wan joining her for a bit of quiet after leaving his master in the middle of a rambunctious game of push-pull-dodge.

Shmi glances at him, and Obi-Wan sets a small multi-tool down. “I’ve been ignoring a lot,” he sighs out, a mix of  _ worried-frustrated-uncertain. _ Half-had conversations, unreadable, lingering looks, the rumors and stories he heard on Concord Dawn, the entire mess on Chandrila, his masters increasing agitation and restlessness, the increasing nightmares he thinks Obi-Wan isn’t paying attention to, the slipping out at night – at least Obi-Wan figured out he is actually visiting Master Fay, that he  _ is _ actually  _ sleeping _ somewhere, even if it isn’t in their quarters, or else he’d be forced to confront the man about it.

He thinks his master is finally, finally ready to actually  _ talk _ to him. He’s relieved about that, and – in spite of the secretiveness and the  _ stress _ and the idea of being completely cut off from the galaxy and everything and everyone he knows – he’s relieved they’ll be going away for awhile. He thinks his master can really do with getting away from it all for a time, even if it is very likely that Obi-Wan is about to be pushed over every limit he’s got, and a few he probably can’t even think of.

He knows his master’s methods well enough.

Shmi offers him a sympathetic, understanding look. “I imagine so,” She says, in the simple, understated way she has, where her meaning is so much more than her words.

Obi-Wan’s mouth twists and he prevaricates by finishing the job of prying his comm-link free of his vambrace and handing it over to Shmi as he’d been instructed.

“Thank you, Shmi,” Obi-Wan says, not elaborating as he folds his fingers over hers when she takes the comm. Obi-Wan uses his other hand to touch his chest, and then his lips before tipping the gesture in her direction, full of gratitude and familial adoration.

She offers him one of those beautiful, soft Skywalker smiles in turn, and everything feels easier for that.

Even impending goodbyes.

~*~

“Jedha?” Quinlan questions dubiously.

“Think about it,” the Third of Shadows advises him, “A thousand different Force Religions converge on the Holy City of Jedha. The Guardians of the Whills look after all of them –  _ and _ keep them in line. It’s a good place to lay low and recoup for a while. If you go to the Holy Temple, they’ll take care of you. The Master of Shadows will find you there. Eventually.”

“How long will  _ that _ take?”

“As long as it takes,” Trip shrugs, “besides, it will make it more believable when you’re brought back into the Jedi fold. Reconciliation and finding your faith again and all that, given the way you left.”

Quinlan scowls and glowers down at his hands.  They’ve been trying to keep up with Maul, even without the talisman, but even a spy and a psychometric can only get so far when their quarry disappears in the black between stars. They followed every possible lead for months – hyperspace calculations, fuel stops, medical centers, combing back over data and financials they’d discovered over the course of the investigation, trying to find somewhere the darksider might go back to, but the trail had simply gone cold.

Trip is sending Quinlan home.

_ “You make a decent Shadow, kid. But it’s not what you want to be. I don’t think it’s what you should be,” _ Trip said bluntly.  _ “There’s no shame in that. I still might tap you on the shoulder from time to time,” _ he added,  _ “No sense wasting an asset as versatile as you.” _

A psychometric versed in magick, who can walk into the dark and back out again.

Quinlan understands, and he  _ craves _ to go home, to see Tholme and Aayla and his friends, but it still feels like failure.

_ “Failure is dying, kid,” _ Trip told him earlier, when Quinlan said that very thing out loud,  _ “Everything else is just varying levels of disappointment and success.” _

Trip isn’t actually all that great at comfort, but he tries.

So Quinlan tries to appreciate it.

~*~

The Dathomir  evening is thick with mist, patches of amber seeping through wispy air from the occasional lantern. The air is warm, and the sky a distant di m red above. The citadel is rich with life, with power, and music spills out over the still evening from one household or another.

“Mother,” Ysett whispers, holding the door to the Temple.

Talzin turns to one of her most dutiful witches and nods, ascending the stairs and following her inside, leaving the fine start of a peaceful night behind. “You found it?” Talzin confirms, though she knows she would not have been summoned – knows Ysett would not be here – if they had not.

“Halfway across the continent, Mother,” Ysett replies, “Quite a stretch farther than we expected. Vanya complained incessantly.”

Talzin feels her lips quirk at the grumble of rivalry, but dismisses her amusement. “Vanya may try her hand at scrying if she feels her elders were not adept enough,” she replies, “Her aunt would relish it if another of her blood took up the art.”

Ysett shakes her head. Everyone knows Vanya does not have the temperament for such magicks.

Ivenna waits for them outside the door to one of lesser used inner chambers, an unusually hard look of her typically jovial face. “Mother,” she greets.

“Trouble?” Talzin inquires, lifting a brow.

“I could not settle him with magick, so Marrow did it the hard way,” Ivenna says sourly, though pride and satisfaction in her mate glows in her voice, “Mother… the state of him is viciously corrupted.”

“He is a maleling of power and he is one of ours,” Talzin states immutably, “It does not matter.”

He had  _ called _ for her, a maddening cry amid the usual whispers, pulling at her dreams and visions before it  _ finally _ dropped out of the stars in a blaze of fire and breaking metal. As Nightmother, she  _ must _ answer that call. She may aide him, she may forsake him, but she cannot deny him.

Both younger witches look uneasy and displeased, but they argue no further. Talzin offers them both a shrewd look. “This is a clan affair. Keep our guests out of it,” she instructs them. More than mere Jedi, their interesting and slightly annoying  new disciples are too curious and sly by half, and their silver-eyed minder the worst of them.

Fortunately, that one is away,  though Talzin does privately admit she enjoys her company more than expected.

“Yes, mother,” they reply respectfully.

Talzin sweeps past them with a whisper of red silk and glides into the room,  dismissing Ivenna’s mate from where he stands imposingly over the unconscious figure on the table. He drops his gaze in reverence and departs in silence.

Talzin moves to see what she has to work with.

His flesh reeks. The air he breathes reeks. Scars riddle clammy red and black skin. Two mismatched, ill-fitted mechanical arms hang from cheap ports rife with infection. His stunted stature and crown, his broken teeth -  they speak of malnutrition and personal neglect, for all that the heavy musculature on his lithe frame tells a tale of physical prowess. A familiar talisman rests on his chest, hanging from his neck even though the pendant itself seethes against his flesh.

The sight of it almost makes a smile touch her rigid face.

It does, at least, explain how this lost child found his way back to her.

But Ivenna is correct. Talzin can discard the state of his flesh, but the rest of him – he is rot and poison to the core, his power only half his at all, ensnared by the leeching, parasitic touch of another.

He moans and snarls with a listless roll of his head,  ridden with fever. Talzin lays a palm to his brow, discarding revulsion as easily as some might discard a scarf.

Putrid yellow eyes snap open, and Talzin finds a wry smile flitting across her face. His breath comes harsh and ill, and she can see the animal in him struggling to lash out and rend, to draw blood and make suffer, to  _ kill _ – but her power is not Ivenna’s. He may want and rage and summon all his formidable strength to bear – his body will not move.

Talzin has him now.

“Hello, my son,” the Nightmother croons.


	9. Chapter 9

For over a thousand years Livion had seethed in the bitterest of griefs, fueled by fury and hatred born of heartbreak, loss, and vicious loneliness, caught between existence and eternity.

Trapped for the last four hundred years alone with herself in a sealed chamber, with only memory and the lesser-tangible depths of the Force to peruse, barred from the world she had known in life by the limitations inherent in having tied her soul to a physical object. Barred from the absolution of the Force by refusing to let go of her pain, of her sense of self. She does not want to forget. She does not want to fade.

For centuries she has been terrified of releasing herself, terrified of disappearing into the greater flow of the Force, all her suffering for nothing, all her love forgotten, terrified of being unmade, as her soulmate had been.

That is what the Jedi had come to believe, after all – that one does not retain a sense of self, after death. That is what she had believed, even when legends in her time had whispered differently – she has searched and searched and never found the hope she was looking for that her wife was still out there, that the bond between them was unbroken.

Their marriage cord had been a promise – now and forever.

_ Now and forever. _

_ Now and forever. _

_ Now and forever. _

She hadn’t feared death, until Palma died.

She had been naïve and foolish and her own faith had forsaken her, forsaken them both.

Lady Livion does not live in the same reality the living still do. Her existence is less entrenched than theirs. Her awareness is less limited. She had known of the rising darkness long before the Jedi came to speak to her of it. She had felt the dimming future, the sinister web seeping through destiny like a foul murk. What care was it of hers? Let the Jedi fail, let it all fall to ruin, let it all end – let the Sith dream of immortal power, they would not have it,  _ could _ not, by the nature of Darkness, hold it. She remained, and would remain.

She could sense the ripples of fate, shivering and turning and twisting, sense the power of entities and influences the Jedi had long since grown blind to –

That  _ thing _ following the harbinger masquerading as a man, for instance; a power so immense and arcane it could have snuffed her out of existence with less effort than it takes the wind to whisper. How he’d attained its attention she could not fathom – how he failed to sense it for what it was when it had settled so close and so possessively around him, when it  _ watched _ him the way it did, was another.

Dull sensations and vague movements in the deeper aspects of the Force had reached her, when she had been sealed in that damnable vault – but became explosively brilliant and dizzyingly potent once the fields that had contained her cracked.

There are more entities of power playing with the galaxy than she has ever witnessed in the thousand years that came before. Powers that she cares for little, save to be wary of, and that undoubtedly care little for her. She does not delude herself with grandeur.

And yet.

It is not a grand power, an entity of the galaxy's primordial past or the Force’s ineffable depths that proves a thousand years of bitter, broken faith to be wrong.

It is an insignificant,  _ obnoxious _ little Jedi that - being beyond the senses and knowledge of their sightless, deafened former brethren - has taken to haunting  _ her. _

Not more than a whisper, at first; a brush of intent that might soothe the dreaming or ruffle the senses of the meditating Masters. Nothing more notable than a memory that lingered – the Temple was centuries old – there were plenty of memories that lingered. Those vague impressions of those who came before were what made the Temple what it was, were what cradled those who came after, more than any wide hall or grand room.

And then the Temple came crashing down, and there was so much raw power there – Livion very nearly set herself free, would have, if not for the moment that the same cracks that let her out let something else in.

_ “Are you real?” _ Livion had demanded.

A coy smile on a furred, luminescent and translucent face, sharp teeth faintly shining.  _ “Perhaps,”  _ a lyrical voice had crooned, rich enough to nearly be alive.

But she wasn’t.

Alive.

She wasn’t alive, this diminutive little bimm.

She wasn’t alive.

But she was  _ here. _

And that – that changed  _ everything. _

So Lady Livion stayed.

~*~

Fatigued brown eyes look up across the breakfast table, and Lady Livion delights in the flinch she receives.

She taps her dark nails on the table. They make no sound. This is only an imitation of interaction with the world, after all. This Jedi master is tightly wound with fear and exhaustion, and yet he insists on pretending to be the noble pillar of unshakeable light the Jedi so nauseatingly portray themselves as.

It amuses her to pick away at that façade, to watch it crack and crumble until the truth is let out, until they feel even a fraction of what she had felt, when she first tasted the ashes of her vows, and understood that all the loyalty she gave was not given back in turn.

An irritating twinge shivers through her at the memory, because now she knows her failure was not what she once thought it was – but it was still failure. What she desired was possible… but she had not achieved it. Neither her faith to the light nor her plunge into darkness had brought Palma back to her. None of her service, none of her sacrifice, had been  _ enough. _

His hands tremble around his cup, and Livion wonders why he bothers. The caf has long gone bitter, his breakfast cold, to accompany that horrid pallor of someone who cannot stomach what they know they still ought to eat.

He looks like someone  _ desperately _ ready to fall apart.

And Lady Livion isn’t the only one who can see it.

The young woman that jaunts her way into the seat next to the Dark Lady is all sharp grace and brittle charm, her bone-blonde hair a spiky, ruffled shadow around her face. She offers Livion a glittering look and Master Sifo-Dyas a wan, dry smile.

“You look  _ wretched,” _ the blonde points out, reaching over to snatch a bit of cold fried egg off his plate. She toys with it, smearing grease across her fingers as she picks it apart. The Jedi across from them gives up attempting to even sip caf, looking utterly nauseated.

Komari Vosa eats her snack, completely unbothered. “You should eat.” She gestures to the rest of his cold breakfast with her pinky finger.

The Jedi shakes his head, sighing slowly and momentarily squeezing his eyes shut. The girl watches him with a fixed, washed-out blue gaze, her lips giving the faintest twitch of indulgence.

“Then perhaps you should go lie back down, Master Sifo-Dyas. Maybe after a glass of whiskey. You look like you need one,” the young woman drawls.

He peels his eyes back open to give her a pinched look. “Padawan Vosa, it is not yet  _ ten in the morning.” _

She shrugs unrepentantly.

“Besides the point,” he gives the young woman a look that says he finds her nonchalance trying, “I do have plans to meet your master for meditation. That usually proves curative enough in making me feel better.”

“You are the only person in the world, Master Sifo-Dyas, who finds my master’s company a comforting thing,” the girl grins brilliantly.

“I suppose I am.” He musters a faint smile. “Yan can be…” He can’t even finish that statement, and the padawan still cracks a sharp laugh.

“Unfortunately…” the girl continues, “I have come to inform you he won’t be able to make it today.”  Her words might even sound sympathetic, if she’d delivered them without her wry drawl.

“Again?” he queries hesitantly.

“I’m afraid so,” Vosa says, blowing out a breath as if it is all too much to be bothering with.

They both watch something in the man's eyes crumble, just a little, at that, feel the shiver pass through his presence as it curls in on itself, a touch colder, a fraction more fragile, just a bit closer to breaking.

“I see,” he utters, voice small, and Vosa snorts, like he’s made a joke. The lithe blonde spins on her seat and rises to leave.

But not without flashing Lady Livion a smirk along the way.

The child thinks she has power. Thinks she is so clever and strong, to do as she has done,  to walk in their midst and have none of them any the wiser. Livion has nothing to do with her – Komari Vosa is a creature who chose her own darkness. Either it will devour her or she will devour the world around her, and Lady Livion will leave her to it. Oh, she knows someone caught the girl – but that was no Jedi.

_ Someone _ tempered Vosa’s self-indulgence with patience, her pride with promises, let her keep her little ruse up, unaware that the childish dance she started was now tied to strings that will cost her more than she ever bargained for.

Lady Livion would have been kinder, had she gotten to her first – she’d have crushed the chit beneath her heel, rather than cage her in the palm of her hand.

In her wake, Lady Livion looks at the man pitilessly. “You really don’t, Jedi,” she mutters scathingly, and leaves him to his miserable state.

Behind her, an apprentice healer casually makes their way across the dining hall and joins the master at his table with a gentle smile and an easy manner.

~*~

Can the dead go mad?

“You demand that I traverse both the stars and the shrouds of time, young lady, and offer nothing in turn,” the bimm replies primly, not watching sunlight flicker off the leave of a tree in the temple courtyard so much as she is entranced by the cycle of stardust reaching back to its star, a million times made and unmade, and yet still what it always was.

_ Young lady. _ It stings and chafes, for this Jedi’s life has been barely a blink compared to her own existence.

“You are a Jedi, are you not?” Livion demands, “Must I do more than ask?” Does she not think this is not wretched enough, to have to beg for what she had once torn worlds apart trying to do herself? Has Livion not done her favor in turn?

The bimm twitches an ear. “I am a Jedi, and this is my home, and these are my people, and you are a threat to them. I may lose what I have gained, seeking what you could never find, and what then becomes of those in my care?”

“I haven’t hurt any of them,” Livion hisses, “I haven’t the power.”

Luminous eyes turn to look at her, knowing and unimpressed.

Perhaps that isn’t  _ strictly _ true, but she hasn’t played her hand against the Jedi, no matter how insufferable they have been. Was that not enough?

“What do you  _ want?” _ the Dark Lady seethes. A furred face twitches, a sharp tooth revealed in a coy curl of a smile, eyes gleaming with mischief, and the ghost is gone in sunlight, leaving her alone in the courtyard.

“Lady Livion?”

Or perhaps not alone. The shade whips around, perfectly ready to prove that she can do far worse than simply  _ ask _ for what she wants – these  _ are _ Polkit’s people, after all, aren’t they? This  _ is _ the Jedi’s home, and Lady Livion is  _ not _ powerless.

“I apologize if I have disturbed you.”

Death and over a thousand years later and something in her still lurches, to see another face like hers. Soft green skin and vivid blue eyes. Tattooed diamonds dart down her chin, her face still soft with youth. She is clad in dark, rippling material from wrist to ankle, hair tucked away beneath the simplest of headdresses, saved that she is draped in a shawl and veil of the palest blue muslin. In her hands is a lacquered tray, bearing a Mirialan idol, an incense burner, and two cups of black wine.

_ “What,” _ she hisses, and feels a presence at her back, watchful and burning. She swears to herself it is the  _ only _ reason she doesn’t lash at the girl, mock her for her foolishness and her empty prayers, drive her to drop the tray and let the idol shatter, let the wine flood across the pavers and slake the stone.

The young knight does not answer – not in words. She smiles serenely instead and lowers herself to her knees, placing the tray upon the ground and lighting the incense with a pinch of her fingers – a little frivolous Force trick Mir- Lady Livion remembers her own master teaching her.

There is no grave here, no shrine, no memorial.

Just her.

She scoffs, but the girl has settled herself with patience and discipline. She will not move – not even, Livion suspects, if she herself simply departed.

“This one is called Luminara Unduli,” she presents herself, taking one cup of wine in her fair hand and having a sip. She doesn’t shudder, and if that is a true Mirial black wine, then the Dark Lady can be grudgingly impressed with her fortitude.

In spite of herself, Livion settles across from the girl and pins her with a cold, contemptuous look. She cannot taste the wine, cannot inhale the incense – all of this is merely pretense – the dead are not allowed such things.

But there is a peculiar wist she would not have believed she could still feel, to be faced with this ritual. She’d never even wondered if it had ever been done in her honor – she doubts it. There was nothing honorable left of her by the time her pursuits finally took her life.

The wine looks like oil in the sunlight.

“I think I ought to be amused by your little charade,” Livion says humorlessly, displeased and distinctly unsettled, “though to do the thing properly, you know, the wine is supposed to date back to the year I died. I highly doubt this does.”

Livion doubts anyone even knows the day she died. It was hardly worthy of note. She herself doesn’t even remember.

Furthermore, she cannot fathom the effort it would take to get one's hands on a bottle of black wine more than ten centuries old. Jedi were tenacious, but that would be too much.

Luminara Unduli’s pale blue veil flickers in the breeze. “I know,” she replies, eyes shining beneath the shift of fabric, resolute and pure, “Indeed the wine does not, Lady Livion. It dates back to the death of Jedi Knight Palma Unsee.”

She wants to claw that name off the girls tongue and she wants to hear it again and again and again and again.

“This one wondered if you might wish to offer prayer to her memory with me,” Luminara Unduli offers.

“You know  _ nothing _ of her memory!” Livion snarls.

The girl does not flinch.

“Perhaps I do not,” she replies earnestly.

Her eyes do not waver from Livion’s own.

“But you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my buir, who wanted to see more of what was going on with Lady Livion.


	10. Chapter 10

Contemplating the effort of actually getting out of bed, Satine thinks she might cry.

Her body is settled in a rare perfect comfort, she is warm and cozy and everything is soft and quiet. If she starts moving, she knows her stomach will start churning, her hips will ache, and the baby will likely start kicking, which does her bladder no favors.

Satine curls in on herself a little, nestled in her blankets, nuzzling against her pillow to shift her hair away from her eyes as she draws her hands up and traces the mark on the inside of her wrist.

_ Passion, yet Serenity. _

Her eyes prickle, and she takes as deep a breath as she can manage these days. In, and out. In, and out.

Then she makes herself get up.

She doesn’t know if Sha’me has a motion sensor tucked away in her room somewhere, or if the twi’lek’s lekku are just that sensitive, but by the time she’s made it to the ‘fresher door, her faithful mentor and confidant is already slipping into the room. Satine’s not entirely convinced Sha’me doesn’t sleep in that sleeveless body-suit, but she’s not quite mustered up the presumption to ask. She’s clearly fresh from bed – barefoot and armorless, her movements just a little less graceful than usual.

Satine slips into the refresher to relieve herself and wash her face, and by the time she emerges Sha’me has her clothes pulled out across the bed and a droid has delivered a pot of spicy ginger tea.

Satine sips throughout the process of dressing, an affair that gets more and more cumbersome as her sense of balance shifts and fatigue drags at her in spells and her legs occasionally feel like balloons full of water.

First comes the lifting breast-wrap, which relieves her back of some of the stress of her increasing weight and helps her clothes drape more concealingly over her swelling belly. Then the slimming girdle, which increases her shortness of breath, but also aids her aching back and helps disguise her figure.  Her healers aren’t overly happy with the restrictive binding, but it isn’t so tight as to prove detrimental to the baby, so they haven’t yet forbidden it. Slipping on a bodysuit is becoming more and more of an effort, as at seven months along bending down is rapidly becoming a vain endeavor. Next comes her dress for the day, all maroon and cream layers with gentle white details, bearing a high waist and artfully concealing ruffled skirts, and finally a mantled cloak with heavily decorative shoulders to broaden her frame and disguise her silhouette.

By the end of it, Satine is flushed and overheated and can feel sweat gathering between her shoulder-blades. Her stomach churns, and she sits down with a huff and sips at her cup of tea while Sha’me simply swoops her hair back into a simple up and drops an ornate headdress over the top which matches the design of the mantle on her shoulders.

Satine closes her eyes, a headache starting to build simply at the thought of how long she’ll be on her feet today. Standing, sitting, standing, sitting, arguing…

_ “Mand’alor _ sent another gift. And another invitation,” Sha’me informs her, and Satine blinks her eyes open to look up, guilt gnawing at her insides. There have been a series of postponed meetings, curt holo-calls and declined invitations over the last month, and she has the feeling that her unexplained distance has given Jango Fett the impression that she is angry with him. She isn’t, but the gifts he sends speak of an attempt at reconciliation anyways, and she can’t explain that its unnecessary.

She is just… She is scared, and overwhelmed, and she doesn’t think she can deal with however he’ll react to this, so she’s… putting it off.

She can’t deal with him, because he’ll ask questions and demand answers she doesn’t have. He may even tell her to step down, to stop working – and she won’t do that. She was careless and she’ll deal with the consequences, but she will not have her people suffer for it, she will not have all her efforts backslide as a result.

She just… she doesn’t know what she’s going to do.

Her hands curl around her stomach, where she can feel the baby pushing and stretching, and Satine is filled with so much love and so much doubt she can’t  _ breathe. _

She wants this more than anything in the world, and she  _ can’t. _ She can’t. All of Mandalore needs her to be what she’s promised, and it takes everything she has to live up to that. How can she do that and raise a child too?

Her father had made that very same attempt and Satine knows how that turned out. And that was considering Adonai Kryze had not been an unprepared eighteen year old and Mandalore was not in half as desperate a state then.

And Obi-Wan…

What if her child is Force-Sensitive? What if they aren’t?

She doesn’t know if it’s possible that she can do any sort of decent job of raising them and she  _ knows _ she won’t be able to give them up and she  _ doesn’t know what to do. _

But if she tells Obi-Wan, she knows what he’d do. He’d leave the Order for her. He’d give up the Jedi for her. For them. No matter how much she believes the Jedi need him too.  _ Their _ current predicament wasn’t much better than Mandalore’s, and like her, Obi-Wan was a symbol of hope and progress among his people, albeit a less than deliberate one.

Satine can practically see it, in her mind, that promise of the three of them, of how loved and how safe and how happy she’d feel – and she doesn’t think she would ever forgive herself for asking him to give up half of who he is to make her dreams come true.

He would never ask that same sacrifice from her. He loves her too much, and she loves him, and she loves him, and it  _ hurts. _

_ “Redal’ika,”  _ Sha’me sighs,  _ little Dancer, _ and Satine dashes her tears, gritting her teeth at how quickly her emotions spun from her control.

“Help me up, please,” Satine requests, setting her half-empty cup of tea aside and lifting a hand for assistance.

“Always,” Sha’me replies, and pulls her to her feet. Satine swallows, and swallows again as her stomach churns, but it settles.

She lifts her chin, squares her shoulders, forces her hands to stop trembling and marches on.

~*~

Jango Fett will privately admit to a small bit of relief when his  _ Jorad’alor _ strides into the room with the dignity and command of a queen. He will also admit to a twinge of displeasure, that when she registers his presence in the room, her face loses color and her gait some of its confidence.

He doesn’t miss the fact that beside him, Bo-Katan winces guiltily. Or, well, her version of. Her eyes pinch and her shoulders grow a little tight as she glances away from her sister’s flicker-quick look.

Shrewd eyes among the room glance between the  _ Jorad’alor _ and the  _ Mand’alor, _ and Jango marks those who look intrigued as opposed to concerned. Jango pushes off the wall and pulls her chair out for her, clasping her forearm before taking her hand and helping her sit with grace. Not once does her gaze directly meet his, though she gets close enough he doubts anyone else can tell.

Needless to say, it puts him in a shit mood to start off the day with.

By midday, all parties are thoroughly entrenched in disagreement over agricultural allotment, and when a break is called for, Jango makes no pretenses of blatantly interrupting the conversation between his  _ Jorad’alor _ and a representative of the Concord Dawn Protectorate.

“Duchess, I was hoping we might-“

“No,” Jango cuts off the next person to approach her too, and Satine stiffens. Sighing tersely, Jango gestures that he’d like her to walk with him.

She nods tightly and moves first, letting him fall in step with her. He notices a clammy sweat around her hairline, that her stride is more grounded than he recalls, and that her breathing comes with a little more effort than it should. He won’t comment on her peculiar choice in fashion of late.

“I thought you’d be on Mandallia for another week,” she states neutrally.

Jango snorts. “And you planned to be gone by the time I should have arrived, I presume?”

She doesn’t deny it, though her lips pinch.

“You understand I used to track down people who didn’t want to be found for a  _ living, _ right?”

“I am aware,  _ Mand’alor,” _ she replies, and turns abruptly into an antechamber full of low benches and high windows. Jango follows, sighing out irritation and scrubbing a hand over his face. He posts Bo-Katan outside in the corridor with a sharp look and tries to ignore the warning glare he gets from the twi’lek not even pretending not to be following them from behind her.

“Look, Satine-“ her back is still facing him, so he can’t not notice that her shoulders hitch higher at his entreating tone, or perhaps his carefully personal use of her name, as opposed to her title.

He really can’t stand it. “What the fuck is going on?” he growls out, planting his feet and crossing his arms. None of this is right. He’d thought she was angry at him – not – not  _ scared _ of him.

Why the fuck is she scared of him? The girl was damn near fearless, in his opinion, infuriatingly so, and Jango  _ does not want her to be afraid of him. _ She never has been before. This - what they’re trying to do – it doesn’t work if she’s afraid of him. She  _ has _ to be his equal, she has to be bold and unbreakable and damnably contrary, and if  _ he’s _ fucked that up somehow, he needs to fix it-

“Satine,” Jango barks – and, damnit,  _ no, you fucking di’kut _ – he grimaces and gentles his voice, “Satine. Turn around and look at me.”

She stands rigid, and, after a moment, slowly shakes her head, her earrings swinging with the gesture.

A guttural sound of frustration grinds in his throat and Jango wants to reach forward and shake her. Instead, he takes a breath, marches past her, throws himself down on a bench so that he’s the one facing her, and sweeps his hands out.  _ ‘What are we doing?’ _ that gesture implies, and Jango really wants to fucking know.

He’s got a system in shambles to rebuild, a delightfully intimidating Queen who has decided that the two of them are  _ good friends _ now and gives him more troubles and unsolicited advice than he knows what to do with, an entire host of unwanted outsiders trying to get their claws into their system, a handful of terroristic holdout cells of Death Watch still plaguing his people, and he can  _ deal _ with all of it – he  _ is _ the  _ Mand’alor _ – but he knows it would be better for his people if he and his  _ Jorad’alor _ dealt with it together.

He needs her to be who she is, and he needs her to work with him, and he’s got no fucking clue why that is suddenly too much to ask.

Then, of course, he gets a look at her, and it is all the answer he needs.

She won’t look at him – can’t, he thinks – her eyes shut painfully tight for all that the rest of her expression speaks of overwhelming vulnerability, and her hands are wrapped protectively over the shape of her belly in a way that can only mean one thing –

She is eloquent even in what she can’t bring herself to say.

_ “Haran’kar, Jorad’ika,” _ Jango swears quietly, full of feeling as his mind momentarily blanks out.

_ Holy hell, Little Speaker. _

“Fuck,” he adds emphatically, after staring for a minute, and that seems enough to drive her eyes open so she can give him a peeved look shrouded by uncertainty. “You’re at least six months along,” he states bluntly – there is no questioning who the father is, he thinks darkly.

“Seven,” she says quietly, and Jango nods shortly, absorbing that information. Then he scowls and looks her over again.

“Awful small,” he mutters. She’s on the taller side, but her frame is still fairly petite. The pregnancy should be more obvious on her figure.

“Girdle,” she says bluntly and – he hadn’t wanted to know that, actually. He grimaces reflexively, and that, more than anything, seems to put her a little at ease. Well, not at ease so much as – irritably exasperated with his reaction, and  _ tired. _

“You want to –  _ sit,” _ he turns his offer into a command halfway through, and Satine joins him on the bench, drawing her layers of fabric forward with practiced ease, so that the swell beneath isn’t even noticeable once she’d settled. It irritates him beyond reason. He’s not angry at her, per se – well, he  _ is, _ but – it is the situation overall, really.

Her private affairs aren’t actually any of his damn business, and it would be beyond overstepping to presume they were, but this… this complicates everything, and it is damnably bad timing. He’s not ignorant enough to think pointing that out would be helpful – she is no doubt painfully more aware of that pertinent and difficult fact than he ever could be.

“You carry yourself well enough I probably wouldn’t have figured it out,” Jango says, edging around the issue of her secrecy and avoidance, rubbing his jaw as he mulls the situation over. He wants to pace, to work out the tension knotting in his frame, but it is an aggressive action that he is aware is not the least bit soothing to those in his presence.

He can make an effort not to make this  _ worse _ for her.

What he would not give for Adonai Kryze to be here right now.

“I would have told you,” Satine replies with a sigh that is so much older than her years. She looks at him, silver-blue eyes shadowed but resolute. “We can’t afford to lie to each other.”

“Can’t really afford to avoid each other for months on end, either, Satine,” he points out dryly.

Her frame slumps. “What are you going to do with me?” she inquires, wringing her hands to work out some tension of her own before smoothing down her skirts.

“I really don’t know where you and your sister get the idea that I  _ control _ the  _ Jorad’alor,” _ Jango grumbles, even as he has to force some of the tension out of his body. He won’t lie and claim he isn’t angry at her for the avoidance and the secrecy and the compromise to her health, but being angry at her at this point isn’t going to help either of them. He is a bit more pissed at Bo-Katan though, for the suspicion that she used her position to help her sister avoid him.

But that is another messy issue.

The look she gives him for his answer is full of frustrated confusion and the edge of stressed hysteria. She’s been avoiding him for months - he doesn’t want to contemplate what kind of dread reaction she’d imagined. He’s an unapologetic  _ shabuir _ and he can be cruel beyond measure, but he’s made her cry before and he’s not keen on doing it again. Especially not over – something like this.

Shit.

What the fuck  _ is _ he supposed to do, though? His  _ Jorad’alor _ – his eighteen-year-old revolutionary  _ Jorad’alor _ – is  _ pregnant. _

With the child of a Jedi.

Shit.

Obi-Wan.

Ben.

Ben and Obi-Wan and – shit.

What the fuck.

“I can’t deal with this,” her voice cracks, and Jango jerks from the spiral of his thoughts as they try to work out a problem that wasn’t made to be worked out.

Her lips are stiff, but her eyes are wet, desperate and glaring at him, her fingers knotted into fists in her skirts, her shoulders curled in defensively and her chin lifted defiantly. She’s overwhelmed and that’s plain to see.

Jango steels himself and draws an arm around her, pulling her into the protected cradle of his neck. She sucks in a startled, stuttered breath, and he lets one hand rest on the back of her hair, the other holding her by the shoulder, bracing her. “I need you to know you can trust me, Satine Kryze. We may have a legion of unsettled differences, but matters like this - however you want to handle it, I’ve got your six.”

She shudders.

“I don’t  _ know _ how to handle this,” she confesses, the words barely a whisper and full of shame.

Jango grimaces, because he hasn’t a fucking clue either. “You wouldn’t be the first  _ ‘alor _ to hide having an heir in turbulent times,” he manages to offer up. They  _ could _ do it – she’s seven months along and managed it nearly alone so far. “But Obi-Wan…”

She flinches and pulls away. Jango doesn’t cage her, but he lets the hand on her hair slide and stay on her shoulder. “I can’t – I can’t tell him,” she says sharply.

Jango furrows his brow. “Satine –” it’s blatant that the two of them are obviously in love,  _ jetii _ or not, “– not  _ ever?” _ he hedges dubiously.

Jango Fett has trained and educated Obi-Wan Kenobi and brought him into the Mandalorian fold. He’s done everything save adopt the boy. Jango’s not sure he could keep that secret – and he doesn’t think she should.

“Just not – not now,” she shakes her head, posture brittle enough that he’s wary of pushing the issue. “I can’t make him – not now.” She looks at him, eyes full of heartbreak and determination, and seems too fucking young. Jango Fett had been  _ Mand’alor _ at her age – but not a father.

He knows which responsibility terrifies him more.

“Alright,” he concedes, blowing out a rough sigh.  _ Ka’ra help me. _ “If that’s what you need to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: So reading some of the comments last chapter I think I need to clarify some things and this is actually a great point in the story to do so, so yay:
> 
> I want to emphasize that I took Ben from a very specific point in time. About 4 years post the Jedi Genocide. That means we've got a Ben who was still seriously grieving/ reeling over the fact that his people and his culture were murdered and actively being hunted down, and even their legacy destroyed, still trying to figure out who he was supposed to be now, and how to be that person, still extremely cautious about being hunted by the Empire. 
> 
> I gave him enough time to realize a few things, to learn a bit about the Force because he's got nothing else to do (Luke is a baby being raised by remote moisture farmers. He's too young to go off getting into trouble just yet, so Ben would still be struggling with a sense of purpose), to know Bail was building up a Rebellion, to realize what was happening to people who used to rely on the jedi for aid and protection, to realize the whole Anakin/Darth Vader thing -  
> But at that point in time, he still hadn't deliberately succeeded in communicating with Qui-Gon's ghost (thinking he was hallucinating doesn't count). Yoda gave him this task, and four years down the road he'd still not been convinced it was even achievable - much like Obi-Wan and his sand exercise.  
> What he told Polkit was that _he_ had been told it (Force Ghosts) was possible. But he did not _teach_ this ability to retain oneself after death to her, because he doesn't know how, and he - like the rest of the jedi, currently - can't see her, because he's not figured that out either.  
> So Polkit, like Qui-Gon, had the task of learning after the fact.
> 
> Also, i'm gonna give you a freebie because I seem to have too many not-entirely-tangible powers-that-be on the board: The thing Livion sensed was not Lukka, but the entity attached to the creepy book Ben's been carrying around.
> 
> Okay. So. Now we're going back to Ben and Obi-Wan!


	11. Chapter 11

_ “Tatooine?” _ Obi-Wan utters in disbelief.

Three weeks, a dozen transports, hours upon hours of bartering, more games of sabacc and dejarik than he can counts, one accidental assist in bounty hunting and one not-so-accidental arrest of a spice smuggler and t hey have finally arrived on what Master Ben is declaring their final destination, and it is  –  _ Tatooine, _ of all places.

That explained the sixty-gallon drum of water they’ve been lugging for the last three legs of their journey, he supposes, but…

But  _ Tatooine? _

Master Ben offers him an amused smile and reaches over to tug on his padawan braid.

Obi-Wan growls.

The wave of oppressive heat hit him right off the transport, the air wavering over scalding sand and the harsh light of two suns nearly blinding. Obi-Wan can already feel his fair skin burning.

There’s something else, too, about Tatooine. Sand shifts around his feet, and a hot breeze tugs at his hood, whispering against his ear. There is an unsettling sense of familiarity about it that he doesn’t understand.

“Come along, Padawan,” Master Ben chortles, hefting the rucksack he picked up and leaving Obi-Wan to push the hover-crate containing their drum of water and the other odds and ends his master has either picked up at space markets or acquired while gambling and not given away yet; things like seeds, compressed fertilizer, power cells, and what he’s fairly certain are stolen Republic nutrient packs. There might be a musical instrument too, and what he hesitantly thinks is a canister of raw spice. He didn’t say too much about some of the characters they ended up gambling with, but it’s become very clear to him that there is a different set of societal rules out here on the Rim.

Obi-Wan gives the slightly defunct hover-crate a good shove to get it going, and understands why Jedi mostly only take what they can carry. Luggage is altogether cumbersome.

His master has at least had the foresight and pity to advise Obi-Wan avoid wearing his black silks, so he’s only got a white shirt on under a silver tunic, with a grey robe thrown over his armor. His helmet is in his pack, and Obi-Wan kind of thinks he’d rather be wearing it, but his master insisted they  _ try _ not to draw attention to themselves upon arrival, and Mandalorians are… well, Mandalorians. They have a reputation.

One that can draw a lot of attention in a place like Mos Eisley.

Obi-Wan follows his master through winding streets of off-white pour-stone buildings, all crammed together and stacked on top of each other like warrens, sheltered in thick outer walls from the harsh sandstorms that tear across the planet, keeping his eyes on the older man’s faded brown robe. There is no real sense of order to the traffic, everyone pushing past each other, speeder bikes carelessly zipping through, hawkers accosting anyone who seems like they won’t shoot them for the offense.

A small pack of brown-robed Jawas take interest in his crate, swarming around him, and Obi-Wan is bemused until one of them goes for the latches and another tries to take a spanner to the anti-grav emitter. He ends up yanking that one away from the bottom of his crate by the back of his robe and giving him a good shake, which earns him a cacophony of outraged jeers and chitters before Obi-Wan puts the Jawa back down and scolds them off.

By the time he looks back up, his master has disappeared around a corner and Obi-Wan huffs, speeding to catch up and grumbling under his breath about being left to fend for himself. Jawas can be  _ vicious. _

~*~

“You bought a  _ farm?” _

Obi-Wan doesn’t know why his master seems to find it so delightful that he’s driving his padawan mad, but he apparently does.

“And a speeder-bike, so load this up,” Master Ben taps on the crate and points to a rusty  _ desert-runner _ model with a clearly modified engine, and by modified, Obi-Wan means it looks like someone cannibalized it and then tried to put it back together with mismatched parts.

It’s not a Skywalker-like ingenuity – he’s half convinced the thing is going to explode if they try and take it anywhere. His master doesn’t seem concerned. He does, however, pause before he steps away. “Double check the filters too, will you? And make sure we have spares – put them in the crate while you’re at it. I think they’ll be safer that way.”

Obi-Wan glowers at the man as he wanders off in the direction of a small market they passed, and hefts the crate onto the speeder’s rear storage rack. He eyes the seat grudgingly, and comes to the conclusion that he’s probably going to have to sit on the crate – the seat doesn’t seem like it will fit the two of them comfortably.

Obi-Wan glowers in the direction his master went once he’s sure the crate is locked down and he’s tied his pack securely to the side. The farm, the speeder-bike, whatever he’s off to get now – his master knew  _ exactly _ what he was up to, with the amount of currency he raked in as they gambled and bartered their way to the back end of the galaxy. Obi-Wan finds himself fairly disgruntled to be on the other side of the older man’s scheming.

This must be what Master Windu and Master Gallia feel like  _ all _ the time.

It explains so much.

Obi-Wan looks over the engine and exhaust systems while he waits, checking all the filters and prying some kind of dead locust the size of his hand out of one of them.

His master comes back with two clay jars of japor butter, a small sack of small round desert fruits – pallies, and a conciliatory smile.

Obi-Wan gives him a skeptical, distrusting look that is  _ maybe _ a little exaggerated.

He squawks when Master Ben, with unbothered aplomb, swipes his fingers into one of the jars and just starts smearing what feels like gritty grease across Obi-Wan’s face.

~*~

The desert whips by with familiar ease. Tuskens hoot and howl, unseen, as they pass through the canyon – a few half-hearted pot-shots taken at their speeder startle Obi-Wan but don’t hit anywhere near them.

First sunset turns the sky a rosy orange, turning desert shapes into mixed shadows. Second sunset turns the sky red, then pink and lavender, finally fading into deep blue.

A Tatooine night is never truly black – the stars are too numerous and bright for that. Ben can feel Obi-Wan’s surprised awe, as different lights overtake the sky, the galaxy unveiled.

The temperature drops rapidly after that – desert nights are  _ cold. _ The air chills, and slowly, the sun-baked sand follows. Ben feels a shiver pass through Obi-Wan and then through himself.

If he didn’t know exactly where he was going, they likely never would have found the dilapidated farm – the very same hovel he once before condemned himself to exile in.

There are no lights, and the squat above-ground structure – a pyramid-square base with a round dome on top - is half-buried in sand drifts, blending into the rocky mounds of the ridge it’s built on and almost invisible against the dunes beyond. He draws the speeder to a long, slow deceleration, finally stopping to park it next to the empty base of a long-scavenged generator.

A decade or so likely doesn't make a difference to the state of it – the property, in spite of its higher than average water condensation, has long been abandoned. Too far from the safety and resources of civilization, given the Tusken Clans roaming the canyons between the Dune Sea and any proper settlement, and the natural hazards of the Jundland Wastes. Ben imagines he will find it now just as he found it when he first hid away here.

The idea proves oddly comforting. In a way, this place seems oddly out of time, distant from the turn of the galaxy and untouched in all ways. That had been both a curse and a blessing, once.

At the moment, however, it is simply convenient.

Ben moves to dismount the speeder only to find that Obi-Wan –  whose feet are kicked over the rear end of the crate and speeder and whose back is pressed back against his – isn’t merely settled, but actually asleep leant against him.

Ben finds himself smiling fondly into the dark evening and shaking his head before reaching around and shaking his padawan. “Obi-Wan.”

He earns a grumble before any coherent reply, and then Obi-Wan is sliding off the speeder on uncooperative legs.  The speeder’s stabilizers aren’t the best, and they’ve both been subject to constant shaking for the last several hours. Their muscles haven’t quite caught up to the fact that they aren’t anymore.

Obi-Wan puffs out a breath, shivering, sweeps his hood off – showering caked on dust – and looks out over the edge of the ridge behind the hovel, where the stars unfold over silver ripples of sand into what seems like eternity. Power pulls coyly into the distance of the desert, into the shining unknown edge of the horizon and the brilliant glitter of stars, elusive and undeniable.

“This is it, huh?” Obi-Wan turns to him with half a tired smile, grudgingly impressed.

Ben’s answer catches in his throat, at first, and he licks his lips and coughs to clear it. “This is it,” he replies.


	12. Chapter 12

After tripping over an alarming amount of clutter in the dark, Obi-Wan and his  master managed to find  a recessed alcove with a single musty cot – which, concerned for the hygiene of the long abandoned matt, they discarded into the detris of the rest of the open concept abode – laid down their bedrolls, and made themselves as comfortable as they could.

Obi-Wan wakes up when the faintest brush of light starts spilling through the small, broken windows high along the wall, to find a sand-adder coiled tightly in the wedge of his armpit.

He sucks in a sharp breath and tenses.

With exceptional gentleness, Obi-Wan reaches out with the Force, both carefully sensing his way around the coiled body and attempting a sympathetic connection. The creature is calm, basking in his body heat through the cold night, and Obi-Wan makes sure it stays that way.

He’s got it gently teased out of the mold of his arm and into the air, still coiled, still at ease, though it’s muscles ripple, when Master Ben chooses to shift in the bedroll beside Obi-Wan’s, turn his head, and blink awake.

He jerks, startled at the very venomous snake hovering a scant few inches away from his face, and elbows his padawan in the ribs on accident. Obi-Wan bites down a grunt, and shifts the sand-adder farther away from the both of them. It’s starting to notice the lack of heat, and a black tongue flickers out.

Obi-Wan sends it out a window and down into the sand much more quickly after that.

“Well,” Master Ben remarks, “I am  _ very _ awake now.”

Obi-Wan lets out a huff and lays his hand over his ribs. “No kidding,” he says, sitting up.

His master grabs his arm. “Ah ah,” he stops him, “Be mindful that there may be more.”

Obi-Wan glares at him.

~*~

There  _ are _ more, including one curled up under Master Ben’s bedroll.

The house is full of sand, crumbling furniture and rusting appliances, animal leavings, shed snake skins and exoskeletons, the empty shells of former eggs, and a good number of vermin. The refresher is next to their recessed sleeping alcove, and the rest of the dwelling is all one open room with partial walls and supports vaguely delineating the kitchen from the main area, and a curved nook where it seems like seating for a table ought to go.

The pale pour-stone walls have a bit of cracking, and it doesn’t appear that a single window survived the property’s neglect, but nothing seems structurally disastrous, and there is a narrow set of slightly eroded steps to an underground cellar which is sealed up tight . They both decide to tackle the house first, before seeing what might be left down there. It is quite common on Tatooine to expand structures underground to insulate both from the heat and to preserve any ambient moisture produced in the house.

They retreat outside for breakfast – a stale ration bar and a single pallie fruit each – and they take a walk around the property. There is plenty of open, hard-packed sand for practicing saber-play, and a few good spots higher on the ridge for meditating in a bit of shade. Master Ben points out a dark patch of sand at the bottom of the ridge, a bit of a hike from the house, where there appears to have been a great deal of animal traffic and digging. Master Ben explains that this is likely the spot where water collects, either running down from or seeping through the stone of the ridge. Not enough to form a proper pool, but enough to wet the sand. There are some scraggly, scrawling trees clinging to the cliffside with an impressive weave-work of long-running roots, and a brittle kind of scrub darting through the sand in the shadow of the stone.

The both of them have enough experience moving sand that clearing out the house is not nearly the chore it could have been, but evicting the snakes and bone-pale, hard shelled centipedes and bulbous eyed, beaked little vermin proves more challenging.

At least the padawan doesn’t get bitten by anything venomous, though he does become acquainted with stinging flies, which leave several welts on the exposed skin of his neck.

Most of the furniture was wood and cloth, all but one chair either cracked with heat or riddled with dry rot. They drag it out and burn it on the open sand.

Obi-Wan does a lot of sweeping, eyeing with suspicion every dark crack and cranny and shadowed little nook.

Master Ben finds a few decently serviceable pots and pans in the kitchen, and a few oil lamps in the higher cupboards. He also finds a dead snake in the sink pipe and an isolated, aggressive colony of mold in the small cooling unit. There are no less than four bird’s nests in the stove.

Stashed  _ under _ the stove-oven, he unearths two bottles of liquor of indeterminate origin that appear to have been forgotten there for possibly several decades. He eyes them heavily. Obi-Wan takes them from him and pours them out in the sand outside.

The sizzling vapors alone nearly knock him over.

Master Ben makes crude glass windows to replace the broken transparisteel – the panes end up fairly thick, with gauzy streaks in them, but they’ll work to keep the vermin out. Obi-Wan doesn’t have nearly the control with manipulating energies his master does, so watching him work heat and sand into glass is still something a little marvelous to the padawan.

They take a bit of a rest at midday, when both suns are highest in the sky, and the evening is turning cold by the time everything is satisfactorily cleaned out enough for habitation.

They spend the second day on repairs – getting the stove-oven, the cooling unit, the refresher, plumbing and power in working order.

Obi-Wan also discovers that he had too much sun and not enough japor butter on his skin the first day, and Master Ben chides him lightly for it even though the achy pink flush on his skin is chastisement enough.

Obi-Wan works on the stove while his master investigates the water recycling system.  The oven’s heat-reflective casing needs some repairs before it can be used, but the coil generators on the stove-top are utterly shot. They’ll be lucky to get lukewarm heat out of them – if they won’t short and explode. The cooling unit won’t work at all without some replacement parts, and Obi-Wan consigns himself to rations for the foreseeable future.

His master reminds him to slather on japor butter every time he vaguely approaches the front door. Obi-Wan is rapidly getting accustomed to the uncomfortable texture of it.

The water rationing is a less rapid adjustment, and those reminders are far sharper.

They open up the cellar, which was power sealed long ago and long ago completely rusted shut, so they blow the door out with the Force. His master goes up and down the stairs working out the water recycling system. Obi-Wan is tasked with moving the four vaporators they find upstairs and outside, and dealing with what was left behind. The cellar is long and narrow, but tall enough to stand in. Metal shelves line the stone walls, covered in dust, and a long table runs down the middle. Old tools, a few long rotted linens, and what looks like back-up parts for the vaporators dot mostly empty shelves, and a dozen square trays of hardened dirt rest on the table, likely for gardening. There is a wiring set up for lights to be hung from the ceiling, but no fixtures remain if they were ever actually installed, and at the far end of the room is a big empty drum for water storage.

It's a lot cooler in the cellar than it is in the house above.

Obi-Wan takes the linen out to be burned, and finds a small solar generator in a crate tucked on a lower shelf. The seals on the crate have held, so it’s in surprisingly good condition, in spite of the model being so old.

He takes up the task of installing it outside, hooking it up to the structure’s meager power grid so they can actually get things working once they’re fixed.

Master Ben eventually decrees the water system in good working order save the need for a new power regulator and some filters. He informs Obi-Wan that they’re going to have to acquire some salt and waste about two gallons of water to flush the system out, though.

Supper is the same as breakfast, and they spend the two sunsets up on the ridge, meditating, until the evening air turns from cool to cold.

~*~

Master Ben spends the third day teaching Obi-Wan everything he apparently needs to know about vaporators, condensation tables, and water taxes.

Obi-Wan tries not to be perturbed at the idea of being here long enough to pay taxes, and spends half the morning swearing beneath his breath at his master, the suns, the stinging flies, and the force-forsaken vaporators as they try to get them set up.

The flies don’t even seem to touch his master, and when Obi-Wan complains about it, Master Ben gives him a look like maybe that’s something he should figure out.

He vaguely recalls an adage about under duress being one of the best times to learn.

He doesn’t like it.

Obi-Wan’s only concession is that Master Ben seems to be cursing under his breath at the vaporators too, even  _ after _ he’s had to almost completely disassemble them, clean them, and put them back together  _ while _ teaching his padawan what he was doing and why. They end up with three working vaporators and scavenge the fourth for parts.

The task proves aggravating enough that they take a longer rest that afternoon, and Obi-Wan spends the latter half of the day with his datapad and course-work. Master Ben spends it molding pallets out of rough glass so they don’t have to keep sleeping on the floor, which Obi-Wan appreciates if only because instead of a sand-adder cozying up to him last night, he woke up when a bone-white centipede as long as his forearm tried to crawl down the collar of his shirt.

The two heavy sand-glass pallets barely fit side by side in the recessed alcove that serves as their sleeping room, but he and his master have shared tighter quarters, and Obi-Wan is just glad to be up off the floor.

The fourth day, Obi-Wan wakes in the middle of the night from a confusing dream about Satine trying to hand him a chalice, and Anakin calling his name over and over, and a door that for some reason isn’t quite a door –

He wakes up, because his master is twitching and shifting in his sleep; rapid, jerky movements and a sweat-soaked brow indicate nightmares. Obi-Wan sighs in quiet despair and carefully sits up, drawing his knees up to wrap an arm around them and resting his other hand over his master's sweaty brow. He can’t cure the man of his nightmares, but he can quiet the fear for a moment, he can soothe them.

He’s had plenty of practice in  _ trying, _ at least, over the years.

The man settles, but he also wakes up, blinking in faint confusion as the other presence registers.

“Obi-Wan?” his master mumbles.

“Who else?” Obi-Wan teases faintly.

“I almost thought you might be Fay,” Master Ben sighs, still clearly gathering his bearings, else he would not have admitted that so plainly.

Obi-Wan’s humor goes from faint to brilliant in a quick and delighted shift, and Master Ben grumbles and rolls over, so he doesn’t have to look at the cheeky grin across the young man's face.

Obi-Wan keeps grinning anyway, as he stretches back out and settles down, recovering himself with his robe and pressing his shoulders back against Master Ben’s. The padawan sighs, pillowing his head on his own drawn-up arm.

“Thank you,” Master Ben whispers, after a minute of quiet, as both their breathing evens back out and fall naturally in sync.

Obi-Wan hums noncommittally in response. “Go back to sleep, Master,” he murmurs.

Master Ben sighs slowly, shifts, and settles.

Two minutes later, Obi-Wan kicks him. “Stop  _ thinking,” _ he grumbles, “Go to  _ sleep.” _

This time Master Ben huffs, sighs noisily, and lets the tension slowly seep out of him, instead of just holding it in and holding it still.

Obi-Wan is the one who ends up lying awake, listening to the other man fall asleep and dwelling on his worries.

The fourth day, they go to Anchorhead.


	13. Chapter 13

They wake at first light, the desert air still cold, and Master Ben guides Obi-Wan through impressing upon their humble dwelling a faint impression of warning, in the Force. Nothing dramatic, but enough to make any roving scavengers think twice. Even with the two of them, it’s a weak impression, likely to fade by the end of the day. Imbuing Force impressions was _not_ easily done, but Master Ben had a knack for it, which Obi-Wan knew from his master’s glass work. He still has the glass bird that absolutely sings of his master’s care for him, carefully tucked away amidst his possessions.

They eat the last of their slightly shriveled pallies for breakfast, go over once more what they’ll need to pick up in Anchorhead, and dress to head out. Their silks are expensive enough to draw attention, so they both wear only the protective silk undershirt – white in Obi-Wan’s case and cream-colored in his master, and their spare, simple synth-cloth tunics. Obi-Wan grins as he pulls his on. It’s a warm white also, with Anakin and Jax’s efforts in embroidery all across the bottom half, Anakin’s spotted orange and yellow lizards and Jax’s green and blue stars, the stitches surprisingly neat but inexpertly uneven.

Shmi had gotten to Master Ben’s tunics, however, because his tan tunic was adorned with detailed black krayt dragons and little red birds, the stitches much more practiced. Master Ben runs his fingers across them, bemused, and shakes his head.

Obi-Wan itches to don his armor, feeling too light and exposed without it, but the contemplative, doubtful pull of Master Ben’s mouth suggests that two Mandalorian’s hiding out on the edges of Tatooine’s dubious civilization wasn’t exactly a discreet rumor to have started.

Sighing, Obi-Wan throws on his cloak and climbs on the back of the speeder. He eyes his master as the man walks across the sand, his stride a little uneven. Obi-Wan thinks the hiking back and forth while they positioned the vaporators and the numerous trips up and down the stairs the day before that hadn’t been the best on his bad leg, new as it still was.

When they get back from Anchorhead, Obi-Wan plans on brewing some gimmer tea for him – even if they don’t get the stove up and running right away, he thinks he can probably get water to a simmer on solar heat and sand temperature alone.

Although, the thought of drinking something hot before the sweltering heat of the day passes into cool evening honestly makes him gag. Maybe he’ll just do up a whole pot and let it cool. They’ll have it on hand that way.

“Are we going to get shot at again?” Obi-Wan inquires dryly, recalling their first pass through the canyon valleys.

Master Ben offers him an amused smirk. “Likely so. Is that a problem?”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, crosses his arms and mutters, “Apparently not.”

~*~

Obi-Wan learns a few very fast lessons as they make their way through Anchorhead, which, like every other settlement on Tatooine, is a lot of off-white pour-stone and crowded streets full of anything and everything that might fall off a smuggler's ship or have even the meagerest of trade value.

First, in spite of the fact that Republic Credits represented a higher value, they were worth less on Tatooine than Cho Mar, Wuipupi, and Calamari Flon. Luckily, his master had known that and they’d acquired the appropriate kinds of currency as they more or less gambled their way to the Outer Rim.

Second, milk was cheaper than clean water; desert gin, red beer, and milk liquor cheaper still.

Third-

“Hey mister!” A smart, young voice pops up as a tug pulls at his robe, and Obi-Wan looks down to see a round-faced girl perhaps a little older than Anakin, with golden blonde hair and a laden hawkers tray full of… cheese rounds? She looks up with very serious light blue eyes. “You got people lookin’ at you.”

Obi-Wan blinks. “Beg pardon?” He inquires. She gives him a sweet sort of smile for it, and tips her head towards a lounging group of hard-eyed characters who were, in fact, watching Obi-Wan less than discreetly, sizing him up. One of them sneers, catching his eye, revealing sharp teeth. Obi-Wan frowns back.

He looks back down to the girl. “I see.” He says, still somewhat puzzled. She gives him a blank look for a beat, and then heaves a big sigh.

“You got a weapon?” She asks, looking him over herself, like he was a dairy jerpa she wasn’t very impressed with. “If you got one, you should show it, or they’re gonna think you’d make an easy pile of credits. You’re healthy and young and _awful_ pretty, and it doesn’t look like you know your way around here yet. That’s not good.”

Obi-Wan blinks rapidly, at the no-nonsense way she says what she says, and it clicks.

“They’re _slave-runners_.” He blurts out, looking back at the group with hard sharpness at the realization.

The look she gives him is very compassionate, and very worried. “You _really_ don’t know your way around here yet, do you?”

“Not yet.” Obi-Wan replies. “Thank you for pointing that out.” He glances around, and frowns. “What about you? You don’t seem armed.” And he doesn’t see an adult keeping an eye on her either. The girl can’t be more than ten. She grins, all bright white teeth and good nature.

“I’m a _Whitesun_. I was born free and I’ll die free and nobody is gonna enslave _me_. People know us around these parts and _that lot_ usually know better than to try and take a local – least not one that isn’t in debt. Besides, I’ve got her.” She points at a table near one of the open barbecues, and it takes a moment for Obi-Wan to realize she’s actually pointing _under_ the table, where a massif – a stout, armored canine as big as the girl herself – is dozing in the shade, dark eyes trained fixedly on her charge.

“I see.” Obi-Wan smiles. “Well, I do appreciate the concern, but I promise you I can handle myself, even against unsavory characters such as that.”

“You even _talk_ pretty.” The girl bounces on her heels. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” She nods smartly, and then gives a wide, cheery grin. “Wanna buy some cheese?”

Well, Obi-Wan can hardly say _no_ at that point.

“What have you got?” He inquires, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robe.

“I’ve got bantha cheese, jerpa cheese, hard cheese, smoked cheese, green cheese, soft cheese, basil cheese and melon cheese.”

“Melon cheese?”

“It’s got black melon-berries in it. It’s sweet.” She informs him. Her tray is loaded with wedges, small wheels, and – for the very soft cheese- wax cloth pouches. Obi-Wan is going to get sick of dry rations sooner rather than later – especially considering his master was more miserly over hoarding the canteen of red-sauce he’d brought than he was over their water, so he considers the cheese with quite a bit of thought.

“I don’t suppose you sell bigger wheels than this?” He inquires. He’s eyeing the soft basil cheese as a treat, but a good wheel of simple bantha cheese would serve both him and his master a lot better.

“Sure do, follow me!”

He doesn’t actually get much choice in the matter, considering she grabs his wrist in a surprisingly firm grip and pulls him down the street and around the corner to an actual cheese house. The massif pads down the street after them, tongue lolling out of it’s mouth.

There is an older couple minding the cheese house, but aside from a brief friendly greeting they apparently leave the little girl to handle the sale.

When they start talking price, Obi-Wan understands why. The girl can _haggle_ , and she does it _so_ chipperly.

They’re at it for twenty minutes, deadlocked at a price difference of four wuipupi that Obi-Wan is fairly certain he’s going to have to concede, and by the light in her eyes, the girl _knows_ she’s going to win, when his master slips through the entrance.

“Obi-Wan, what _are_ you doing?” The man inquires, pushing aside the woven drape in the opening.

“Being out-negotiated, apparently.” Obi-Wan replies, exaggerating defeat as he sighs and slumps his shoulders, fishing his stash of wuipupi out of a special pocket on his boot.

“You didn’t fare half bad for an _outmian_.” _Outsider_ , the girl grins, fetching his wheel from under the counter and a jar of soft basil cheese from off a shelf that she has to climb to reach.

“Beru Whitesun, you be _careful_!” The old man at the back scolds. Beru Whitesun just throws a sweet smile over her shoulder and hops down, jar in hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan catches Master Ben jerking oddly, like he’d been caught off guard. Obi-Wan searches his senses, but nothing feels off.

‘ _Master_?’ He projects.

Master Ben glances at him, eyes pinching in a faint wince, and shakes his head minutely. Obi-Wan frowns at him, but leaves it be. He hands over his money.

“I know another little girl named Beru.” He says instead, to the little girl sweeping his wuipupi off the counter with really more glee than was warranted and it dawns on Obi-Wan, late but better than never.

 _Master Ben had named that youngling Beru_.

Obi-Wan had always assumed there was a reason for it – more meaning behind it than had been explained – but he’d never pressed for the details. Beru was a Tatooine name, and Tatooine was where his master had been before he came back to the jedi – Obi-Wan knew that much.

He must have known someone named Beru, and the reminder had probably caught him off guard.

“It’s a good name.” Beru replies brightly.

“I think so.” Obi-Wan agrees, taking his purchases and nudging his master as he heads for the door. “Thank you for your assistance.” He bows slightly.

“Sure thing, mister! Come back again!” Beru calls after, as they slip out the door. “And look after your pa!”

Both jedi choke a little, sharing a glance. Then Obi-wan winces, because they step back out into harsh sunlight, and Master Ben snorts. “Look after your pa?” He repeats.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, squinting as he draws his hood back up to shade his eyes, shoving the cheese wheel into his master’s hands. “She was worried I’d have trouble with slave-runners. Being young and… er… pretty.” He flushes, but he’s red enough with sunburn he doubts anyone could tell. "I guess it doesn't do us any favors in that regard to be the new folks around."

Anyone _except_ his master, of course, who unashamedly chuckles at him, tugging on his padawan braid teasingly.

“Did you get the parts for the water recycler?” Obi-Wan inquires, changing the subject.

“I did. _And_ for the stove, while you were so busy haggling over _cheese_.”

Obi-Wan lifts a warning brow. “Well, master, if you don’t _want_ any…”

“Ah -” Master Ben takes pause, fixing the edges of his robe. “Well, I didn’t say it wasn’t appreciated.” He amends, and Obi-Wan smirks.

They pick up the few other odds and ends parts they need, as well as some very expensive vegetable starts and soil bacterium that Master Ben haggles over an hour for. Obi-Wan wanders away about forty minutes in and picks up a pair of slightly worn bantha-wool blankets and some spare cloth. He gets distracted at a spices stall for fifteen minutes and eventually wanders back to find his master still negotiating.

“Are you thinking with your stomach today?” Master Ben ribs him, when he discovers that Obi-Wan has acquired a large glass jar of dried chili flakes and a sack of dried melon-berries and pallie wedges.

“I’m thinking I don’t need to be more miserable than I have to be.” Obi-Wan retorts gamely, and eyes his master. “Are you alright?”

“Pardon?”

“You’re limping.” Obi-Wan points out, the motion much more pronounced than it had been this morning. Master Ben’s mustache twitches with mischief, and he gives Obi-Wan a patently false guileless look as they round the corner for the out of the way lot their speeder was parked at.

“Look after your pa, Obi-Wan.” His master replies, reaching out to scoop the glass jar out of Obi-Wan’s possession.

“What-?”

That is, of course, when he gets jumped.

He lets his purchases drop when the bag swoops over his head, the material thick and foul smelling, and slams his elbow back into the body behind him with Force-enhanced strength. He rips the bag off his head and snaps his hand towards his concealed lightsaber-

“No.” Master Ben barks, and Obi-Wan snarls in aggravation before slamming his fist into the duros’s narrow gut before grabbing their wrist and giving it a hard yank and twist that puts them on their knees facing away from them while he wrenches warningly on their shoulder.

Master Ben seems to have dealt with his own attacker quite handily by discovering that a too-swift kick from his duralloy composite leg very easily broke bone. There is a third unsavory character wielding a stunner prod, but given what happened to his companions, he seems to be reconsidering his life choices, the weapon held out defensively in front of him.

Obi-Wan breathes out sharply and glares at his master. “You were playing bait.” He remarks flatly.

The man’s russet brow twitches. “Your concern for my wellbeing _is_ appreciated.”

The teenager rolls his eyes. The gran with the stunner-prod twitches, and two blue-grey glowers turn sharply on him.

“O-our mistake.” They stutter. The trandoshan with the broken femur sobs a bit.

“You may want to help your companion to his feet and _get on your way_.” Master Ben says, voice utterly cold.

Obi-Wass releases the duros roughly, getting spat at for his efforts. The two grab their wounded companion, the duros glaring blackly at the two jedi all the while.

“And gentleman?” Master Ben adds, voice soft and unforgiving. “I would _rather not see you around_. You understand?” It’s not a direct mind trick, but Obi-Wan can feel the pressure of the Force around the words.

The gran gulps again and bobs their head.

“Glad we could come to an agreement.” The jedi master smiles, and the three hurry off.

Obi-Wan picks up the things he dropped, sighing at the amount of sand all over everything. He gives his master a sideways look. “Your leg _is_ bothering you though, isn’t it?”

“Ah. A bit.” His master admits. Obi-Wan nods.

They pack everything away in the crate on the back of their speeder, re-install the filters his master insists on stowing whenever the speeder is parked, and Obi-Wan takes the seat this time, his master settling on the back where he doesn’t have to put quite so much tension on his knee and the port just beneath the joint.

The Tuskens in the canyons wave at them before they start shooting this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Ah, I know you all are seething in anticipation because we all know the reveal is coming up, but I am having a lot of fun with these two just experiencing Tatooine, so I am going to write my fill of that too. :)


	14. Chapter 14

Dirt. Bacterium. Fertilizer. Compost. Water.

Obi-Wan spends the morning mixing nutrient dense mud while his master installs light fixtures in the sublevel and susses out where the long-buried natural skylight was supposed to be and clears it out again, shielding the newly re-excavated tunnel with a dome of glass on the topside. Slightly hazy golden light spills down into the sublevel, making it seem fairly homey for a hole in the ground.

When Obi-Wan has a dozen trays of damp soil, his master takes over carefully planting the vegetable starts he’d haggled for and some of the seeds they’d brought to Tatooine with them.

Obi-Wan gladly leaves him to it and cleans himself up, still getting used to the dry-scrub method his master had introduced him to before putting his hands in the sterilizer box next to the kitchen sink, a combination of UV light and sonic scrubbers that still never _feels_ quite as clean as a good water wash, even though logically he knows it’s just as effective. Afterwards, he goes to check the gages on the vaporators, drinks a half cup of water, and sets to work on an essay assignment for one of his courses.

The two of them have been more or less forgoing lunch, both given their limited and unappetizing supplies and because the heat has killed their appetite. A cup of moderately cold tea at the height of midday during their rest is their meager concession to the idea of lunch, at least.

His master putters about when he’s done with the garden downstairs, and Obi-Wan gives him several side-long glances before finally telling him to sit down and give his leg a break. Master Ben huffs at him, but does so, massaging the knee.

For about ten minutes, before fetching his holocron and disappearing outside.

Obi-Wan sighs and goes back to frowning over his essay.

~*~

At first sunset, they walk out to the edge of the dune sea, where the bedrock of the ridge gives way to open, shifting sands. The sand glows red with the fading light, and Obi-Wan can see the shadows of either banthas or Tatooine hyenas meandering across the plains in the distance.

Master Ben puts him through his paces, from Shii-Cho all the way to Niman and the foundations of Vapaad. Over and over and over again, even though he doesn’t point out any flaws in Obi-Wan’s basics.

The sands fade to purple, and the sky turns yellow, then lavender, and then leeches into darkness as silver sparks spread across the great expanse, casting a pale shimmer across the sands.

The air turns cold, but it soothes against the warmth building in his muscles.

“Let’s do this one more time.” His master says softly, and Obi-Wan is too used to his master’s training to even sigh, at this point. “However, this time I want you to tell me what it is that defines these forms as you go through them, tell me how they were developed, and for what purpose they are best suited. And padawan - slower, this time.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t grumble. He doesn’t. Slower is harder, more physically stressful, and he’s already gone through these sets half a dozen times.

“Yes, master.” He replies respectfully, and starts over again.

He can’t even _shower_ after.

That realization does give him pause, but he draws in a breath and resolves to simply deal with it. He could not always expect to operate in ideal conditions, and he should learn to deal with that with grace.

~*~

They repeat the exercise as soon as first sunrise touches the horizon with a faint glow, Obi-Wan dragged from his bed with stiff muscles and confused complaint. He doesn’t even get breakfast first – but they do pause the check the vaporators.

This time, he does _all_ of the repetitions of his sets slowly, expounding upon each form’s unique qualities, their strengths and weaknesses, underlying philosophies, and the history of their creation and refinement.

Both suns are up and the sand is scorching, but the time his master calls it to a halt and they walk back to their dwelling.

His master carefully parses him out several cups of water through the afternoon, and Obi-Wan attends very dutifully to stretching, knowing he can’t have a relaxing soak.

He contemplates a cup of gimmer tea, but refrains. He didn’t bring it for simple muscle aches.

His skin pinches and Obi-Wan knows he’s burned again – the japoor butter hadn’t held up to that much movement and sweating.

They head out again as the first sun falls against the horizon.

 _Endurance_ , Obi-Wan assumes. _Fortitude_. _Limitations_. He’s been learning these lessons for years.

His master doesn’t ask for recitations this time, as Obi-Wan pushes through the movements. He asks for Obi-Wan to think about each form, to consider how they suit him and how they do not, and to describe how _he_ would improve upon them, adapt them to be more effective in his own experience.

It takes Obi-Wan time – he moves through the sets twice in silence, thinking about it. Adapting a fighting style to suit personal strengths, weaknesses, ability and ease is something every jedi does – Obi-Wan himself has done it, but it’s not – it’s not something he consciously thinks about, really. It’s instinctive, and he has to consider what he’s already done as well as what he might do, if he put more deliberate conscientiousness into doing it. Adapting his grip for his weaker wrist; changing the height of his guard position to better suit his maneuverability; widening or narrowing his stance to fit his build – or the strength of his opponent; tightening the edges of his forms for better defensive speed…

It takes a lot of repetitions, and a lot of thinking about. It comes to the point that Obi-Wan is stumbling bad enough, muscles uncooperative, that he sinks down on the sand and just talks through it with Master Ben.

When they call it for the night, it sits in his mind, a task half-finished, spinning through his thoughts with possibilities and considerations he hasn’t had the time to work through before. The walk back gives his body time to cool down, but his mind in still burning.

Still, as soon as he’s lying down, he’s dead asleep.

~*~

The next couple of days pass the same way, Obi-Wan testing his theories and his physical limitations, falling into the routine of getting up, checking the vaporators, training, having breakfast, resting, having supper, checking the vaporators, training again. They start seeing returns on their water collection, and the proof that the vaporators are operating correctly is a relief.

Tatooine calls a rest day before Master Ben does – they wake one morning to find a sandstorm building on the horizon. They spend that morning checking the anchor-lines for the vaporators before deciding to just take them down to be on the safe side, and pulling the speeder in close to the dwelling, tying a tarp down over it. When the sandstorm starts pushing across the dune sea, rumbling like an angry god, Master Ben ushers Obi-Wan back inside.

“We’ve got hours yet!” Obi-Wan protests.

Master Ben just shakes his head. “Storms like that generate lighting. It may look clear here at the moment, but we’re close enough to be in the strike zone.”

That is both fascinating and disquieting, and Obi-Wan surrenders to being cooped up in the house for however long the storm lasts. One of them may be able to catch lightning with their bare hands, but it wasn’t the padawan.

Master Ben sets him to mediating over his sand exercise, which Obi-Wan _doesn’t find amusing at all_ , but a few hours in and the endeavor is entirely hopeless. Building above the general muscle fatigue and soreness he’s gotten accustomed to over the last several days, his wrist feels like it’s being clenched in a vice. Master Ben’s pale face, rigid, pained posture and the white knuckled grip over his knee says his old scars are flaring up just as much and likely worse.

Obi-Wan fetches them both the pitcher of gimmer tea from the cooling unit and presses a cup into his master’s shaking hand.

The storm lasts a couple of hours. Even with the gimmer tea, at it’s worst, Master Ben ends up retching from the pain, retreating to the fresher and shutting Obi-Wan out while he shudders and gasps. Obi-Wan sits outside the door and presses his forehead into his knees, listening to the sand howling against the pour-stone wall and screeching off the glass panes of the windows.

When it finally trails off, Obi-Wan overrides the door panel and lets himself into the fresher, ignoring the smell of bile and the sensation of his Mater’s pain in the Force, still lapping against the walls of the tiny room. He fetches a cup of water, ignoring the older man’s protest, and pats his face clean with a damp cloth.

“Of all the planets in the galaxy, you had to pick Tatooine?” Obi-Wan sighs quietly, offering his master the rest of the cup to sip at.

Master Ben huffs, a grimacing, wretched little sound.

“It wasn’t this bad before. I could manage it. I wasn’t expecting…” He swallows, rubbing at his knee. Obi-Wan tosses the cloth in the cycler, which will both clean it and re-condense the moisture left in it for the houses water system.

“You were younger and you weren’t missing half a leg.” Obi-Wan points out, laying a hand on the older mans shoulder. “Master, that was awful.”

“Sorry.” Mater Ben mutters, and that doesn’t actually make Obi-Wan feel any better, because his master is still miserable.

“C’mon.” He helps the man to his feet and back out to their humble living area, and pours more gimmer tea into his now empty cup. The strong bitter scent cuts through the lingering aroma of stress-sweat and bile in his nose.

“Thank you.” Master Ben murmurs, looking tattered as he sinks down into their one actual chair. Obi-Wan reclaims his lumpy floor cushion.

“How long did you live here, before?” Obi-Wan inquires curiously, hoping to take his masters mind off his current state and the lingering traces of embarrassment.

“Four years, give or take.” Master Ben replies, the words almost disappearing completely behind the rim of his cup, so softly spoken were they.

“May I ask why? There’s no jedi posting on Tatooine.” Too far from the Republic, too entrenched by the Hutts and the Syndicates, the spice and slave trades. In dread irony, it was all of those reasons that Tatooine could _use_ a jedi presence, and yet it was all of those reasons why they were not here. Such terrible things take place here that Obi-Wan wouldn’t have been surprised if the planet felt dark to the core, but it doesn’t. In spite of everything, it doesn’t.

“I had lost… everything. Everything I was, everything I believed I was supposed to be. I came to Tatooine because I meant to disappear. I had – I had to. I had to, but I didn’t really know _how_ to. How not to be… what we are.” Grief and guilt twist in the Force, heavier and more complex than he can untangle.

Obi-Wan takes a steadying breath and leans in, earnest and feeling, catching his master’s stuttered gaze. “We can’t not be what we are, Master Ben.”

“Sometimes we have to be.” Master Ben replies, hoarse and bitter.

“I can’t imagine it.” Obi-Wan replies honestly, heart sick at the very thought.

“No.” Master Ben smiles faintly, staring at Obi-Wan as if that were the most painful of truths. “No, you can’t.”

He closes his eyes after, and rubs at the ache in his knee. Obi-Wan bites his lip before he asks another question. He’s not sure he can bear any more answers tonight.


	15. Chapter 15

They get the vaporators back up with slightly less cursing the second time around, and the day after the sandstorm they go down the ridge in the opposite direction with a pair of long-handled trowels and track down the spot where the water gathered at the bottom of the ledge.

Water divining with the Force is an interesting trick, Obi-Wan thinks, sinking his senses deep into the sand and bedrock to get an actual sense of what he’s looking for, rather than just wandering in the shadow of the ridge until the Force nudges him ‘ _here’_.

He gets the faintest sense of it, and then an _overwhelming_ sense of it before he loses focus completely, but for a moment, just a moment, he could almost taste the damp sand and wet clay, feel the slow, softening seep of water rising from deep, deep down as if it were bubbling through his own bloodstream – not in underground rivers and lakes, but in an almost porous sense of transfer.

Tatooine was by no means a small planet, but Obi-Wan couldn’t escape the briefest impression that it shouldn’t seem as deep as it did, as if it’s core just disappeared into forever.

He briefly recalls his last misadventure with planetary presence on Concordia, and shudders with apprehension. Small swirls of sand play around his feet, teasing, and Obi-Wan takes a breath.

They shift and scrape sand away from the wet patch, listening to the bass calls of wild banthas coming from somewhere among the dunes, until the yard-pounds of built up dry dust are out of the way and the sand turns dark beneath their feet.

Obi-Wan brushes sweaty hair off his brow and eyes the two suns climbing the horizon. They won’t have shade where they’re at much longer. “Why don’t we just build a pool?” Obi-Wan asks, thinking rather pityingly of the animals trying to lave water from a sand slurry.

Master Ben shakes his head. “The water would simply evaporate. The sand actually prevents the water from vaporizing.” His master demonstrates, scraping his trowel into the damp sand until the drier top layer is pulled away and a small murky puddle form in the trench, before it slowly seeps back into the sand around it and the sand dries lighter.

Whuffling snorts have both jedi turning, eyeing an uncertain cluster of bantha’s nervously moseying closer, and both jedi immediately gentle their own presence in the Force, offering a sense of _calm-safe-friend-not-predator_.

Even still, Obi-Wan is surprised at how little resistance the creatures have to lumbering closer, after that.

“Tuskens.” His master remarks, sensing his curiosity. “They do similar maintenance for wild herds in order to collect milk and wool.” One nervous cow snuffles cautiously as she approaches his master from the side, and the older jedi smiles, watching her nostrils flare and contract as she scents him. “They aren’t what any farmer would call domestic, but they can be amenable, if approached with care.”

A shaggy bull starts scraping at the ground, wide brown eye watching Obi-Wan through the gnarled curl of its heavy horns, thick, flat tail tensed to thwap the ground in warning if it suspects a threat. Obi-Wan keeps himself relaxed and relatively still, leaning on the post of his long-handled trowel.

Obi-Wan and his master linger in the shade until the shade slips away, and then calmly make their way out from the midst of the thirsty banthas. Obi-Wan almost gets knocked to the ground when one bantha cow turns her head unexpectedly, clipping him with her heavy horns, but his master catches him by the arm.

“You alright?”

“That is going to bruise.” Obi-Wan huffs, but counts himself lucky. Bantha’s were big, heavy creatures, gentle natured or not – had the cow moved with enough force, she could easily have cracked his ribs.

They head back to the house to hide out the hottest part of the day, Obi-Wan attending to his course-work and virtual lectures, Master Ben tending to the garden downstairs and occasionally kneading glass between his hands with a casual ease that Obi-Wan can’t find to be anything less than impressive.

When the day starts to cool, they go back down to their spot at the bottom of the ridge, and Obi-Wan works through refining his forms, his master providing a passive opponent for the exercise, still getting used to adjusting his own familiar forms to adapt to his new sense of balance and the slight changes in maneuverability.

They head in a little early, when the blood-curdling, shrieking cry of a hunting krayt dragon screams across the desert evening, giving Obi-Wan a terrible scare and causing his master to laugh at his expense.

Obi-Wan goes to shove him for the affront, hesitates – realizing that doing so from this position would push his master back on his false leg for support – and then does it anyways, because if they both continuously treat the limb as a weakness it will become one. Artificial replacements, once the muscles, blood vessels, and nerves healed and got used to the port and the differentiating input, were just as good as any flesh limb. Better than, with the right upgrades, for everything except delicate sensation – but that aspect mattered more for hands than feet.

His master takes the shove with grace and then trips the padawan before picking up his stride as Obi-Wan yelps and scrambles back to his feet, chasing after. They jostle at each other all the way back to the house, snickering, feigning outrage and reconciliation in turns, and Obi-Wan privately glows with the flush of success hearing his master wheeze with laughter brings.

Even if there _is_ an atrocious amount of sand invading his clothes as the cost.

~*~

Obi-Wan spend his evenings on his saber-forms, but they start taking walks up the ridge in the morning – both to alleviate the demanding physical regimen that had done an excellent job of reorienting Obi-Wan’s daily rhythms and to start focusing on the less physical aspects of his training.

Armed with a pair of weathered japoor walking sticks, the outings take a meandering, aimless sort of journey, wearing a path between their hovel and the distant canyons, his master having him push his senses and his feelings as far as he can without stopping, stumbling, or walking off the edge of the cliff. It’s a sort of active, moving meditation that is completely different from blade-meditations or quiet reflection. There is no fight to follow, no real focus, and the effort leaves the padawan cranky, fatigued, and plagued with headaches. It feels like he’s trying to be in too many places at once; inside himself and outside himself, walking the world and wandering the Force – this causes him to accidentally shadow-walks once, frustrated by his efforts as he stepped in and out of the shadows of rocky pillars.

His master panics, _shouting_ down their bond, and Obi-Wan only has a moment to be extraordinarily disoriented – he has no idea _where_ he ended up and _ouch, Master_! – before instinct takes him back to the older mans side.

Master Ben grabs him roughly by the scruff and Obi-Wan is sure he’s about to get an angry Mandalorian shaking when the man instead yanks him into a brittle embrace.

“That is _not_ good for my nerves, padawan.” His master rasps.

“It wasn’t _intentional_.” Obi-Wan mutters, bewildered at the fierce grip he’s being subjected to, even as he hugs the man back.

Obi-Wan’s head is pounding at this point, and Master Ben has lost the good humor that steering his fumbling, attempting-to-concentrate padawan around generally seems to put him in, so they turn back towards their dwelling, even though it’s only just past second sunrise.

That is, of course, when the Tusken’s arrive.

And by arrive, Obi-Wan means that a pair of them leap at the jedi from atop a rocky overhang, bearing weapons that are half staff and half weighted club, and attempt to cave their skulls in, hooping with frightful loudness.

Obi-Wan does not have his lightsaber.

Neither of them have their lightsabers, at Master Ben’s insistence – he’d claimed he didn’t want the crystals distracting Obi-Wan from the exercise. Obi-Wan had called bantha-shite, because the crystals were meant to help him focus, and his Master had called bantha-shite twice over, because Obi-Wan needed to learn to how to handle himself without their assistance, should the worst circumstances arise.

Obi-Wan catches the club-end on the bar of his japoor walking stick and twists, trying to wrench the weapon free of the Tusken’s hand. The Tuken slides with the motion rather than resisting, and spins once the pressure easing, catching the padawan in the back with the butt end of their staff. Obi-Wan twists, trying not to trip up on the shifting, soft sand beneath his feet, and clips the edge of the Tusken’s mask with the end of his stick.

The Tusken stumbles. Obi-Wan smirks.

The heavily wrapped figure shakes their club-staff, shouting unintelligibly at him, casting affront-outrage into the Force, and launches themselves back at Obi-Wan, who takes hasty steps backwards to avoid a bodily collision. He glances at his master for guidance, because it would be simple enough to just make these scavengers back off with the Force, but…

Master Ben seems to be at ease, matching the wild but fluid attacks of his opponent blow for blow with the steadying motions of someone re-learning something they hadn’t practiced in a while.

Obi-Wan gets distracted with his own opponent when they try and drive through him again, matching strength for strength before throwing them back and watching them _stomp their foot like a petulant child_ before attacking again, lacking the coordinated, swirling grace of Master Ben’s challenger.

Come to notice it, his opponent _is_ on the smaller side. Hard to tell with the thick cloth wrapping Tusken’s preferred, but their frame _did_ seem a little lanky, and they _were_ the shortest being present. Their anger was quick and blustery, all injured pride and _desire-to-prove_.

Obi-Wan takes the offensive this time, pressing forward with sharp, hard swings of his japoor stick, aiming for elbows and knees and keeping his challenger scrambling warily.

Obi-Wan takes the opportunity to glance at his master again, something about his fighting form striking the padawan as odd before Master Ben catches the Tusken on the back of the heel with his stick, gives and yanks and a shove and sends them sprawling on their back as the jedi claims their staff, raising it high in warning.

The younger Tusken jumps, leaping away from Obi-Wan and throwing themselves in front of their elder, planting their staff and throwing up a hand, giving a shout.

Master Ben had, of course, no intention of striking the figure once they were down. He hefts the Tusken’s weapon, offers them a bland, pleasant look, and then launches it back over the outcrop from whence they came, jerking his japoor stick in a very clear motion that they ought to get going.

They do, the smaller helping the larger figure up before they both scurry back up the hill, offering a rude sort of honking noise once they were safely out of reach.

Obi-Wan rubs at the new bruise on his back and eyes his master.

“Well, padawan,” His master smiles cheerily, “ did you learn anything from that?”

“Not really.” Obi-Wan replies, huffing at the blase attitude.

His master’s smile drops a little, and his brow twitches. “How unfortunate, then. Pay better attention next time.”

“Next time?” Obi-Wan sputters.

Master Ben smirks and shakes his head, before gesturing Obi-Wan to carry on. They didn’t want to be out still when the suns were high.

~*~

Obi-Wan meets the last of their new neighbors when the Jawa’s drive their big armored track-trawler down the edge of the Jundland Wastes and come knocking on their door.

Obi-Wan is studying, at the time, and jerks his head up in confusion, because the last thing he really expected out here was visitors.

Master Ben tromps up from the cellar, gestures errantly at him not to bother, and answers the door with a thunderous scowl.

There is a quick, chipper jabber in jawanese from their erstwhile knocker, and then Master Ben’s hard, flat “ _No_.”

The door slams shut.

“ _Master_.” Obi-Wan protests, half aghast at how harshly rude that had been. Master Ben just shakes his head, muttering beneath his breath, and tromps back downstairs to tend to their plants.

There is a second, more insistent knock on the door.

Not a sound from downstairs.

Obi-Wan gets up.

“Don’t answer it!” Master Ben snaps from the cellar.

Obi-Wan has to wrestle down his amusement when he retorts. “I have to – I think one of them is getting a little _too_ interested in our speeder.” He can hear the distinct, testing clang of a spanner against the booster-well.

Mando’an swearing flatters his ears, and Obi-Wan opens the door.

Now there are _two_ jawas standing on the step, jabbering chipperly in jawanese. Persistent little buggers, jawas were.

Obi-Wan knows _maybe_ a handful of words in jawanese. He learned them from Anakin, and none of them are polite. There are, however, more ways to communicate.

First, he smiles.

They get a little more excitable, talking fast and pointing back towards their mobile chop-shop of dubiously acquired trade-goods.

Obi-Wan holds up a hand, points to the jawa scrambling all over their speeder, and crosses his arms, dropping his smile.

As one, the pair on his step turn, throw up their arms, and shout at the other, who shouts back in dismay and abandons the speeder with a very dramatic sulk.

To seal negotiations, Obi-Wan reveals the small wedge of cheese he’d been snacking on when the knock on the door came, offers it towards them, and then lifts it out of reach when they grab for it. He gives him a little shooing motion with his free hand, and then hands over the cheese.

They exclaim gleefully, pat Obi-Wan on the knees, and then scurry off with their prize.

Amused, Obi-Wan shakes his head and goes back inside.

“They didn’t take anything, did they?” His master calls up.

“Nope.” Obi-Wan calls back, settling back down with his datapad and his notes.

There is a quiet pause from downstairs.

“Obi-Wan.” His master’s voice drifts upstairs.

“Yes?” Really, is this something they did now? _Shout_ across the house?

“What did you _give_ them?”


	16. Chapter 16

_ “Try.” _

_ “Do or do not, there is no try.” Qui-Gon retorts bitterly. _

_ “Then do.” _

_ “I…. can’t.” He sinks into himself, the very idea a weight he can barely bear. _

_ “Then attempt and fail.” _

_ “I – That’s –“ He sputters, the idea utterly anathema - _

_ “Qui-Gon Jinn,” His soul healer says; soft, kind, slightly exasperated, “the best thing you can do for yourself, and for your padawan, is to allow yourself failure. Do not let the idea of failure paralyze you from trying. Perhaps you will not succeed, perhaps you’ll gain nothing, but right now, if you at least try and fail, you’ll lose nothing either.” _

It is with this recent interaction in mind that Qui-Gon stares down his padawan, in her too-neat tunics and her freshly polished boots and with not hope but a burning determination in her iridescent blue eyes.

Since the start of all this – since the day she became his padawan, really - Sian has been unflinchingly resolute in the face of all his difficulties. It’s just… more so, now.

Every morning she makes him tea, and, having no compunction about barging into his room when he fails to rouse himself, ensures he rises and stumbles into the fresher. Depending on how bad a morning he’s having, by the time he’s made an attempt at washing up, breakfast is either ready and waiting or they’ll venture to the nearest dining hall for it. Without fail, she strips his bedding and drops it down the laundry chute before she leaves for classes, to deter him from ‘depression napping’ as she calls it.

There is an ever growing stack of teaching rota assignments, archival projects, and volunteer activities sitting on the table in their living area.

She returns mid-morning to have tea with him at lunchtime, and Qui-Gon musters some satisfaction that he can manage to have that prepared by the time she arrives, including something to actually eat, considering his padawan’s appetite. She smiles brightly, every time, and she chatters – about her friends, about her classes, about temple gossip, and the look she gives him when she leaves again always makes him feel as if she can see right through him to the dull, empty nothing in his chest that betrays him by not even having the courtesy to  _ hurt _ .

It’s when she returns in the afternoon after her classes that things become… difficult. This is the time of the day when a proper master should attend to his padawan’s non-scholastic training. Every day, she asks him to meditate with her, and he – he  _ can’t _ . To even try, knowing what he  _ won’t _ feel…

Eventually, she nods, and looks away, and then tries again, asking him to accompany her to the salles. This he agrees to, on most occasions, observing her form and offering corrections, though he – he never takes up his lightsaber himself. He hasn’t touched it, not since…

“Show me.” She asks, sometimes, when her form falters, or she’s learning something new and not quite getting it right from the training holos. He corrects her form, and it’s not enough, and she asks him again, her gaze burning through him, and he can’t pick up his lightsaber, he can’t. He fetched a knight once, to give her a proper demonstration, a proper sparring partner, and the knight bore the brunt of such a bitter, angry frustration that he hasn’t looked Qui-Gon Jinn in the eye since, and still avoids him in the halls. Not once did Sian Jeisel turn that snarl and glare on her master. Not once – but he’d seen it nonetheless.

Qui-Gon hasn’t asked anyone for assistance again, after that, and Sian stopped insisting a second time when he dropped his gaze and shook his head. She makes do without and she doesn’t complain about it.

He wishes she would. He wishes she would see this for the folly and farce that it is. He gets angry at her, sometimes, that she doesn’t just quit, that she doesn’t give up and leave him to his miserable state –

On the days he has therapy, they walk to the Halls together, and she goes off to see her own soul healer. On the days she has an evening session in Force Structures to teach, she ensures Qui-Gon has company for supper, either leaving him in Mace’s care or Master Yoda’s. It should grate, irritating and infantilizing, as if he cannot be left to his own devices, but at that point he is just…tired. Too tired to argue, too tired to take offence.

Mace has concerns that his padawan and former padawan are conspiring, and Qui-Gon takes some galled amusement in the fact that Mace has yet to realize the entire temple is conspiring to get him and Adi Gallia to stop focusing on work long enough to acknowledge that the two of them would simply suit each other very well as companions.

Master Yoda and his Padawan Iara are content to discuss the reformatting of the gardens, and the most recent projects the various corps are expanding upon and Master Yoda’s latest complaints against his grandmaster. Fay herself joined them once and frowned over Qui-Gon, who was wilting away from a discussion on Force Mechanics.

“You’re Force Blind, not Force Null.” She informed him, something his healers had remarked upon after several batteries of tests. Something he had taken in as rather inconsequential information, given… given.

“Your point?” Qui-Gon had replied snippily.

She’d given him a long, admonishing look, with those mist-grey eyes. “Meditation is more than indulging in our connection to the Force, young man. It is about clearing the mind of distraction and disorder, strengthening one's focus and understanding one's feelings. I can tell by the state of you that you probably haven’t meditated in months, have you?”

Qui-Gon glowered down at the table, trying not to recognize Yoda’s quiet disappointment in the sad droop of those large, weathered ears.

She took his silence for admission. “I thought not.” Fay remarked. “Do so, grandpadawan of my grandpadawan, and perhaps some things will be made more clear to you. No one can help you until you want to be helped. In the meantime, you are only hurting those who are trying to.”

The evening had ended rather quickly after that sour note, and Qui-Gon had dragged himself straight to bed once he reached his quarters, asleep and undisturbed by the time Sian returned, missing their evening tutoring session to go over her coursework.

She doesn’t bring it up the next day. Their routine goes on as usual, until this moment, where the question comes as it always does – “Would you like to meditate with me, master?”

And Qui-Gon hesitates. He stares down his padawan, in her too-neat tunics and her freshly polished boots and with not hope but a burning determination in her iridescent blue eyes. She has done everything possible to embody the image of a perfect padawan – from changing her preferred manner of dress to bringing up her marks in class to attending to her own training without fail, all while managing him in his faltering, morose state.

His chest feels tight – it aches, completely separate from that dull empty pit of nothing where he used to feel the Force burning through him. It aches, but it is, at least, warm underneath. He swallows, and takes a deep breath. “Thank you, padawan.” He says, and her gaze dims, just a little, anticipating the rest of that statement –  _ but I’ll have to decline today _ .

“Thank you.” He repeats, with a deep, quiet feeling. “I think… I think I would.”

Surprise makes her eyes widen, her mouth part slightly, and then she beams, wide and bright with sharp, ecstatic relief – and he doesn’t need the Force to tell that at all, because it’s written entirely across her face.

~*~

Meditation helps, though Qui-Gon can’t quell the bitter disappointment that though his mind and body fall easily into the familiar practice, his senses don’t alight, the world doesn’t turn bright and burnished around him, singing with energy.

It is eased somewhat, however, by the bright verve meditating with his padawan seems to put back into her stride, the glint of victory it adds to her eyes every day.

He knows she used to find it a great comfort, to meditate with him, but surely it isn’t the same anymore, with his… disability.

He poses that query once, and the answer he gets is not the one he expects. “It’s exactly the same, Master. Why wouldn’t it be? You’re still there.”

It rattles him more than he likes to admit, driving him out of his quarters once she’s left for classes, and down the long trek to the Halls, to speak with the healers again.

“Master Jinn, the only thing you have lost is your ability to  _ perceive _ the Force. Your connection to the Force itself, your strength within it, all that remains. You do recall we had to sedate you through your initial shock, don’t you? You made quite a mess of your room.”

He didn’t exactly recall that, no. The first few days – stars, the first few  _ weeks _ of his recovery were vague and disconnected. Some days still feel that way, lost in a sort of fugue apathy.

He poses the desperate question that perhaps, if that were the case, he might regain…

Their hesitance to answer the query is answer enough. Qui-Gon departs the Halls abruptly after that, returning to his quarters with dashed hopes threatening to rise up from the pit in his chest and drown him. He tries to make tea, to calm the raging emotions in his chest and settle his frayed nerves and ends up shattering a cup. He stares at the shards on the counter and the floor, the sopping puddle dribbling off the counter and onto the floor, the edge of his sleeve soaked.

He can’t tell if he snapped the fragile ceramic in his hand or with the Force. He can’t tell, and no one can tell him. He shatters the next cup far more deliberately, throwing it against the wall in a fit of rage at his own damning helplessness and inability, and another, before shame mortifies him at such behavior. He should not have-

_ Why not _ ? Part of him wonders.  _ Why can’t he throw a damn temper? He has lost, has he not? He has lost the only thing in his life that has never betrayed him _ -

He stalks away from the mess, unable to bear it, and moves into his room, only to stop short at the sight of his stripped bed, the blankets and linens dutifully removed by his padawan to keep him from wallowing physically as well as spiritually.

_ Sian _ .

Qui-Gon sinks helplessly against the wall, eyes falling closed. It’s not enough, not nearly enough of a release. He covers his face with one hand in shame, and weeps.

~*~

By the time his padawan returns for lunch, no evidence remains of the mess in his kitchen; he’s also showered and cleaned himself up, hair combed and braided back, scruff trimmed into a semblance of dignity, stained tunics exchanged for new.

He feels shaky and drained still, and he does not attempt to fake a smile because he knows she’ll spot its falseness without batting an eye, but he greets her with an embrace and the light suggestion that perhaps they’ll venture to Dex’s Diner for lunch that day.

Sian eagerly accepts the invitation, and Qui-Gon swallows against a strained throat and additionally suggests that perhaps her  _ other _ boots would suit such a venture better – her spiked, buckled boots, as opposed to the neat, polished set she was wearing now that looked all too much in danger of scuffing.

That earns him a searching look, and a softer, hesitant smile that doesn’t look half as bright as her easy-going grins, but somehow looks far more real than any of those he’s gotten of late.

Qui-Gon tries again and insists this time, shooing her towards her room.

She bounds back out with her proper boots on, a spring and spunk in her step more attuned to the energy of a tweenling than a nearly senior padawan, although she takes care not to snag him with too much force when looping an eager arm into his and sweeping him towards the door.

Qui-Gon isn’t sure he has nearly half the energy necessary to make it through the outing he has proposed, but it is worth the effort, he thinks, to earn that flash of pride in his padawan’s eyes, when she glances up at him as they step outside.


	17. Chapter 17

Obi-Wan is, admittedly, a little leery, the first time he beheads a striking sand-adder and his master decides that it shouldn’t go to waste. He shows Obi-Wan how to clean and prepare it, discussing the apparent multitude of ways one can cook and preserve snake, if that’s all they have to survive on.

Obi-Wan gets the sense that his master, like he so often does, speaks from direct experience on this lesson.

Still, it is nice to add a little more variety to their dry rations.

Obi-Wan is slowly adapting to the almost languid routine of being out in the middle of nowhere with just his master, his studies, and his training; though at times the lack of communication and news from the greater galaxy itches under his skin like sand mites in his clothes, making him restless and irritable.

Two more miserable sandstorms come and go in the span of the next month. Obi-Wan learns how to milk a bantha without getting kicked and tries not to take out his irritability on the Tuskens who seem to treat their daily walks as an  _ invitation _ to challenge them; spectators even come now, lounging on boulders and outcroppings of rock, cheering and jeering in turns and generally treating it like some bizarre sport.

Obi-Wan is educated a bit brusquely on the difference between the Tusken Nomads and the Sand Raiders, and how he shouldn’t make the mistake of mis-identifying the two. Namely, that the Tusken people were – as far as their own history recorded - the indigenous – or as close to it as there could be – people of Tatooine. They were a  _ people _ , with their own collective of histories and traditions and tribal laws that were not to be broken or offended. They were known to steal water and equipment and even livestock; but to them, thievery from outlying farms and settlements was a matter of survival as well as their right – these were Tusken lands, and all outsiders had stolen their resources first. They kidnapped people too, sometimes, stealing them into the tribe when they needed new blood, or new skills, or simply because they rather took a liking to them. But the Tribes generally avoided conflict outside of defending their own and warning off strangers from drawing too close to whichever home they had settled in for the year. They may enjoy a good skirmish now and then, or strike harshly out at those who have caused them a particular grudge – knowingly or not - to prove the might of the Tribe, but they would rather scatter than truly go to war. Their actions were typically of a furtive nature, and they came and went like a desert breeze.

The ‘Tusken’ Raiders, as they were commonly known – or as Master Ben referred to them, the Sand Raiders - on the other hand, were made up of Tusken outcasts and flotsam dredges that sloughed out of the space ports – pirates and criminals who disguised themselves as Tuskens to steal from the likes of the Hutts and the Syndicates; who murdered, brutalized, and pillaged from farms, settlements, and actual Tusken camps without compunction, stealing away into the desert to escape persecution. They were a scourge, and the Tusken people took their stolen identity as the most heinous of criminal acts.

The explanation puts his neighbors in a new light, at least, considering what he had vaguely known of their reputation, and how it made him feel about them.

Obi-Wan gets a feel for their staff style, the sweeping, whirling motions of not only the staff, but the footwork as well; a gliding, shifting sort of perpetual movement both forceful and elusive, at odds with his much more grounded training – but perfect for as unreliable a ground as the sand dunes.

Obi-Wan is in the middle of trying to explain his observations to his master one evening - not unlike he used to do when Master Ben faced his challengers at the Temple - when the man offers him an amused grin.

“So you  _ were _ paying attention, then.” Master Ben remarks, and Obi-Wan pauses, and then squawks in indignation.

“You could have just told me that’s what I was supposed to be looking for!”

“Your training has truly been wasted if I must still be always telling you what to do.” Master Ben chuckles, blue-grey eyes crinkling at the edges. “You didn’t need to be told what you were looking for, though, did you? You were already looking. You just had to  _ think _ about it too. Well done.” His master praises, which makes Obi-Wan feel less like striking him with his lightsaber for his obstinate refusal to answer a direct and uncomplicated question for  _ weeks _ .

“Thank you, master.” Obi-Wan mutters, wiping sweat off his brow as the second sunset turns the sky a hazy golden-red. “So you wanted me to learn the Tusken combat style, just from observation?”

“No.” Master Ben shakes his head, “I wanted you to learn  _ from _ the Tusken combat style. You’ll go many places in your life, padawan mine, meet many people, face many challenges. The best thing you can do for yourself, and for any students you will have, is to observe, to understand, and to learn from them.” His master gives him a piercing once over and nods to himself, before pushing off the sand from where he’d been taking a rest to massage his knee through its sand-proof protective sleeve.

Well,  _ mostly _ sand-proof.

“You’ve done very well in refining the Temple’s forms to suit yourself.”  _ More _ praise. Obi-Wan can’t help ducking his head a little, pride fluttering in his chest. “I think you’re ready to go beyond that now.”

Obi-Wan looks back up and blinks, uncertain, that pride seizing in his chest. “Beg pardon?”

The look Master Ben offers him is full of warmth, and pride, and absolutely no yielding whatsoever. It’s a familiar look, the same look that got Obi-Wan through the trial that was his first year of training, the look that said  _ there is nothing you cannot do, padawan, because I believe in you _ . The look that said his master saw everything he could be, and knew how to get him there, if Obi-Wan was willing, if he simply had faith and put forth the effort.

It was also the look of the same man who had left Obi-Wan in ignorance of what his limitations as a young, inexperienced padawan  _ should _ have been so that he could learn, with naive, blundering determination, what they actually  _ were _ . So that he could push past them, and push past them, and push past them again, because he simply hadn’t known that what he was doing was said to be something that couldn’t be done - not by someone of his age, with his emotional temperament and mediocre marks; someone who’d had one foot out of the Temple door already.

“I think you are ready to develop a new saber form.” His master says simply.

Obi-Wan gapes at him, thoughts screeching into shocked white noise.

_ Me _ –

_ Develop  _ -

“You have  _ got _ –“ his voice cracks sharply, “ - to be  _ kidding _ me.”

~*~

The Dune Sea is beautiful at night. Silver starlight gathers on crests and rises of sand, rippling against deep blue and black shadows as a light breeze stirs over the surface. Overhead, the stars burn, more brilliant and alive than the city-scape of Coruscant ever could seem to be, and Obi-Wan picks out threads of colors between brilliant sparks – swirls of purple, red, blues, green, the gauzy glow of the galaxy shimmering and radiant, plucking at his soul, making him wish he could stare forever.

The breeze stirs around his shoulders, where he’s perched on the ledge behind their dwelling, one leg tucked in and the other dangling over the cliff. It dries the clammy sweat that had been clinging to his skin and rustles his hair. Obi-Wan scoops loose sand and dust into his hand and lets it slip through his fingers and get carried away.

He shivers.

He brushes his hands off when it’s all gone, staring at his palms, shining pale – if a little gritty – in the starlight. Pale. Clean. Not covered in blood.

His master drops a blanket over his shoulders and joins him.

“Sian, or Satine?” His master inquires, regarding his nightmare, as a yawn cracks out of his jaw, his eyes smudged darkly. His master’s been having plenty of his own restless nights.

Obi-Wan shakes his head, mouth pulling a little. “Neither,” he confesses, glancing at the man as Master Ben carefully lowers himself onto the ledge beside his padawan, hair shining blue and silver in the dark, eyes seeming to whirl the reflected stars. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t seem quite real, and Obi-Wan’s heart clenches in his chest. Then Master Ben turns and offers his padawan a tired, listening look; raw-edged and open in a way he rarely lets anyone – even Obi-Wan - see.

Obi-Wan looks away and licks his lips. “It was you.” He whispers, clenching his hands as a cold, sickly shiver worms its way down to his stomach. “Sometimes I dream – that it was you, instead of Master Qui-Gon. That it’s you, and I can’t save you.” He shudders, remembering how  _ clear _ some of the details are, even in his dreams. What it felt like to dip his hands in blood, the sound of someone he loves choking on their own breath, drowning in red-

“Obi-Wan.” His master grabs his attention, voice controlled and laden with feeling. Obi-Wan looks over, and his master reaches for him, cupping the back of his jaw softly and offering him nothing but sincerity. “It is not your responsibility to save me.”

“But I  _ love _ you.” Obi-Wan chokes, his nightmares still close at hand, his fears. He grabs his master’s shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to that tenuous grasp. How can the man not realize that he’s not something Obi-Wan can just  _ let go _ of?

His master pulls him close, bowing their brows together and squeezes the back of his neck. He takes a breath like he means to speak, and then doesn’t. His breath rushes out unspent instead, and he takes another.

His voice, when it comes, is a soft hush of untempered feeling – proof that his master’s heart is perhaps just as much a vulnerable, untamable thing that his own so often feels like. “Padawan, I have come to love you unexpectedly and completely.” He confesses, wistfully helpless against it. “You are a gift I did not expect from the world, and if I can repay you with nothing else, please,  _ please _ let it be this;” He pulls back, just enough that they can truly look each other in the eyes, both gone silver in starlight and shadow. “Do not judge yourself by what happens to me.”

“ _ Nothing _ is going to happen to you.” Obi-Wan mutters sullenly, half a plea.

“We do not control fate, Obi-Wan.” His master says softly, his touch warm, but his warning a cold, grave reminder. They do not control fate, and the fate of the Jedi, at this moment, was dreadfully vulnerable. Obi-Wan would give his  _ life _ to protect his people, if it was called for. His master was no different.

Obi-Wan breaks his master’s gaze, looking down, and takes in a breath as his chest shudders. He still hasn’t let the other man go. With his free hand, he tugs the blanket tighter over his shoulders, feeling like a child, and flicks his gaze over the dune sea. The quiet that sits with them feels unsettled, and Obi-Wan can tell that his master is on edge, his frame tense with disquiet anticipation.

He can hear the soft whisper of Master Ben taking a readying breath, can see his lips part from the corner of his eye. They press together again, and the older man sighs out through his nose before looking up at the stars and closing his eyes like he can’t bear the brightness of them.

The closer Obi-wan gets to learning his master’s secrets, to getting the answers to all the questions he’s asked over the years, the more wary he grows of actually  _ knowing _ . These moments, getting more and more frequent, along with lingering, shadowed looks of uncertainty when his master thinks Obi-Wan isn’t paying attention – they create a dread that sits like a stone in the padawan’s stomach.

_ He’s already told me about the Sith. _

_ What could be worse _ ?

He knows that’s a childish thought even as he thinks it.

Part of him wants to get it over with, let the glass wall between them shatter and the truth come out, and part of him wants to run away, to  _ never _ know. But the Jedi in him, and the part of him that loves his master the most – those parts say  _ be patient _ , say  _ be still _ , say  _ wait _ and  _ listen _ , so Obi-Wan waits, and when the time comes… when his master is finally ready, Obi-Wan hopes he will be too.

But he doesn’t think that moment is now, not for either of them. So he wrestles down his uncertainty, and turns away from his fears, and dredges up something to break that uneasy feeling tainting the air.

“You didn’t expect to love me?” Obi-Wan manages to croak, peeking at his master from the corner of his eye.

Master Ben’s mouth parts, and his eyes pinch in horribly conflicted confusion.

“How could you not? I’m  _ perfect _ .” Obi-Wan blurts, feeling a very Quinlan-esque sense of humor rear its head. “Everyone says so.”

Master Ben’s brow smooths out, and he blinks at this preposterousness.

“Name  _ one _ person-“ His master argues -

“Shmi Skywalker!” Obi-Wan cuts him off triumphantly. “And her judgement is infallible. Deny it.” Obi-Wan dares him.

Master Ben’s eyes narrow at the challenge. “If you were  _ perfect _ , padawan mine, you wouldn’t need me, now would you?”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to retort and finds himself caught in his own trap. He grumbles, conceding defeat, and tips himself into his master’s side. “I suppose I still have much to learn.” He mutters huffily.

Master Ben snorts quietly, and ruffles his hair. “A bit, perhaps.” He says graciously.

The quiet after that feels more peaceful, and the both of them let their worries slip away for the moment, enjoying instead the silent glory of the stars.

“I still can’t believe you’re making me develop a lightsaber form.” Obi-Wan grumbles, when they finally head in for at least a scant few hours more sleep that night.

“Mace was younger than you when he did it.” Master Ben remarks unflappably.

“I’m no Mace Windu!” Obi-Wan protests, flapping the blanket around his shoulders to shake the sand out and to emphasize his great protest. “And he didn’t  _ build one from scratch _ !”

Master Ben sighs fondly, in the most charmingly smug manner possible, and tugs on his padawan braid. “Obi-Wan, I have every faith in you.” He smiles, and scratches at his beard. “If, however, you require additional motivation, padawan mine, how’s this: we’re not leaving Tatooine until you do.”

Obi-Wan gives the cheeky-toned man a dirty look. “That does  _ not _ help.”

Master Ben catches him when he moves to stalk inside. “Obi-Wan…” He looks him in the eyes, all cheery humor replaced with sincere concern, his eyes searching the younger man's face in another look Obi-Wan knows well;  _ Do I ask too much of you _ ? That expression wonders, trying to seek out the truth through Obi-Wan’s eyes alone.

Obi-Wan softens, half his crankiness a ruse anyways. He’s not  _ that _ grudging about being given an exceptional challenge, and at least this one isn’t likely to end as miserably as his history project had. “I really want to be the jedi you see in me.” Obi-Wan says. “You believe I can do this, don’t you?”

“I do.” His master nods.

Obi-Wan takes a breath, lets it out in a rush, and nods. “Then I can do this.” He says, and pretends not to notice how affected his master seems at how much faith his padawan holds in his regard.


	18. Chapter 18

“You may honestly be getting worse at this.” Master Ben remarks, snagging Obi-Wan back from taking an errant step off the edge of the steep ridge. “Are you focusing at all?”

Obi-Wan feels a little sheepish, but not particularly apologetic. “I’m afraid I don’t really understand the lesson. I’d probably walk better blindfolded.” He admits. It would be easier to trust his steps to the Force when he wasn't also using his eyes, but that isn’t what his master wants. Immediate guidance isn’t the issue, it is the pervasive, all-encompassing sense of his surroundings, of himself and where he is headed and what the Force is whispering that just simply won’t come, and Obi-Wan feels like he is trying to juggle too many skills that he simply doesn’t know how to mesh. It feels like trying to stretch his brain, and getting mental cramps for his efforts instead.

“Besides, “ the padawan adds, “ I sort of trust you too much to not let me walk off a cliff?” It takes much of the urgency and alarm from an exercise that normally would have made his senses keener, knowing he was safe with his master to guide him.

“Maybe I should, then.” His master remarks, frowning. Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, because they both know he won’t. Master Ben Naasade has an overprotective streak a parsec wide – he isn’t going to deliberately let Obi-Wan get hurt right in front of him just to prove he wouldn’t stop it from happening.

Master Ben stops walking – they both do, pausing for a water break, and Obi-Wan watches his master turn a pensive look over the Dune Sea, fingers tapping idly on his canteen. His master takes a breath and sighs. “I think I protect you too much.” He says, half to himself.

Obi-Wan eyes him. “That’s hardly the worst crime in the world, master.” Master Ben can be overprotective, yes, but Obi-Wan has seen worse teachers – ones who went beyond that into being outright overcontrolling. Obi-Wan can say that his master is demanding and difficult and troubled, but he’s never made Obi-Wan feel like he was being kept in a cage.

“That’s not what I….” Master Ben trails off and gives him a disgruntled look. Obi-Wan shrugs, resisting the temptation to drink more water than necessary. The sky is a hazy blue today, the moisture condensation fairly high, and it made the morning heat feel thick as syrup. “There are some things I don’t think I  _ can _ teach you, Obi-Wan, try though I might. Some things a jedi can’t learn when coddled by safety nets and hovering masters.” He eyes his padawan with thoughtful trepidation, and Obi-Wan’s mouth feels dry in a way that has nothing to do with his hydration level.

“What other impossible task do you have for me now?” Obi-Wan – okay, he’ll admit it – he  _ whines _ . “Was deciding I need to develop a new saber form not enough?”

His master’s mustache twitches, his lips curling with teasing humor. “Nothing, padawan mine, is  _ impossible _ .” He says, with cheerful sincerity before a more serious air shadows the blue of his eyes, just enough to let the padawan know that beneath their banter was a serious matter. “In truth, I only have two real things to ask of you, and these two things are what I believe it is absolutely necessary for you to do, you understand? Develop a unique saber form, and master the sand exercise.”

“Just two things.” Obi-Wan repeats with sardonic blitheness. “Of course, master.  _ We’re going to be on Tatooine forever _ .”

His master laughs. “This is hardly the most difficult thing you’ve ever done.”

“How would  _ you _ know?” Obi-Wan protests.

Master Ben shakes his head, reaches over, and prods him, fingers brushing his collarbone and finding one spot in particular, the tattoo hidden by his clothes. Obi-Wan jerks a hand up to cover the mark protectively, a blush darkening his sunburnt ears. His insides twist, and he barely meets his master’s gaze before glancing away. “Because, padawan mine, you’ve already learned that sometimes the hardest thing a jedi can do, is  _ be _ a jedi.”

~*~

_ I protect you too much _ .

Obi-Wan has ten thousand words to write on the dissonance between morality and legality for one of his lecture courses and all he’s really doing instead is watching glittering streams of bright molten glass dance around his masters fingers while their earlier conversation chases itself around in his head.

Sometimes his master makes things – cups, jars, little figurines and the like, useful things and frivolous things too – and other times he just seems to meditate on the activity, shaping and reshaping the liquified sand.

Obi-Wan eventually abandons his datapad and moves over to join his master. “Can you show me how to do that?” He asks, sitting opposite him and settling down cross-legged, like a youngling bothering one of their elders in the gardens back at the Temple, but trying to be polite about the bothering.

Master Ben looks at him mildly. “Don’t you have better things to be doing?” He inquires.

_ I protect you too much _ .

There was worry there, trepidation about the uncertainty of their futures, but wistfulness too, the padawan thought. His master  _ wants _ to be there to protect him, to guide him, even if he can see that Obi-Wan  _ is _ growing up, that he needs that protection, that coveted guidance, less and less.

Some day, Obi-Wan Kenobi will be a Jedi Knight. That day is probably coming sooner than he thinks, even if he’s not certain he’s ready for it yet, but –

Not today. Not just yet.

At the moment, he is still a padawan –  _ this _ man’s padawan, and he can take a pause to appreciate that fact.

Obi-Wan looks him in the eyes and smiles, snorting softly. “No. I don’t, master.” He says with certainty. “Teach me, please.”

~*~

Ben leaves Obi-Wan arguing with himself over his lightsaber forms when the second sun starts to set, leaving him to work out his thoughts on his own, and climbs up the ridge to one of the spots he’s found preferable for his personal meditations.

He settles down on a carrack of rock and watches Obi-Wan’s deep jade saber sear through the fading light for a time, the combination of saber-light and sunset making his pale silhouette turn burning and luminous against the blue and purple shadows, and the golden crests of the dunes.

Ben reaches into the folds of his belt and draws out a simple, slim wooden case, thin and light enough to go practically unnoticed in the folds of his clothes. He opens it carefully, and drops his gaze to the long, thin braid of dark blonde hair within.

It’s longer than the braid behind Obi-Wan’s ear, and somehow, in spite of the greater span of that journey, Ben managed to teach his first padawan far less than he’s taught his second. He was as ill-prepared to have  _ that _ padawan as he was to give  _ this _ one up.

He looks down the ride again, where Obi-Wan dropped out of form and appears to be absently twirling his lightsaber and pacing, no doubt trying to work through some problem in his head.

Obi-Wan is far more settled, as a person, than Anakin ever had been, than Ben himself had been, as a padawan. Ben is proud of that, and he is terrified of messing it all up.

He winds the braid through his fingers, soft as silk even after all these years. Obi-Wan has to know the truth, about Ben, about himself, about  _ Anakin _ . He has to be prepared… but Ben is  _ scared _ . He admits it, he’d admit it a thousand times. He’s scared that everything will go wrong again.

The  _ look _ his padawan had given him today, the care and  _ trust _ that ran so deep and was offered up so freely…

Ben’s fingers tighten, the dark blonde braid pulling taught, cutting into his skin. He closes his eyes and presses his fist to his mouth, the lock of hair kissing his lips.

_ Anakin _ . The name crosses his thoughts like a plea, like a prayer, as it so often had been.  _ Anakin, Anakin, I don’t want to fail again _ .

**_‘I HATE YOU!’_ **

It still makes him flinch, scarred against his soul, the look on his former padawans face, the pain and betrayal in his voice –

He had placed a burden on a boys’ shoulders, too big to bear. The prophecy, the Chosen One, the fate of the galaxy… a destiny he himself could not explain properly, all resting on the shoulders of a man barely grown, full of demands and expectations and very few answers. What had he  _ really _ done to prepare Anakin for that?

Not enough. Not nearly enough. How could he have, when he wasn’t prepared himself? He had done what he had thought he ought to do, and it was… in the end, he fears it was more than inadequate.

He forces his eyes open, not realizing he had closed them, and looks over his padawan once more, down at the bottom of the ridge, proceeding thoughtfully through his Shii-Cho forms.

Is Ben repeating the same mistakes?

He worries at the braid with his thumb, stewing in his anxieties, and forces himself to breathe, even and deep.

Breathe; even and deep.

Dust devils whirl across the dunes, small spirals of sand and crosswind dancing in the last flash of sunlight. Ben watches them twirl, the sight strangely mesmerizing. He lets himself sink into the Force, eyes still drawn to the desert phenomena as they tease away into the horizon and the sparkling of gathered stars.

_ Anakin, am I repeating the same mistakes _ ?

Nothing answers him but the desert breeze, teasing at his sun-streaked hair.

Ben sighs.

He’s not sure the question itself is even fair – he  _ has _ to do it, be it a mistake or not.


	19. Chapter 19

A circular shift backwards, balance rolling to his left, blade sweeping crosswise-

He over-balances and stumbles in the sand.

Again.

Obi-Wan kicks at the drift in irritation, saber-tip kissing the ground in a bubbling hiss of heat, leaving a glowing red dot that cools into a hard, shiny lump of glass.

There’s something missing, in his adaptation. The influence behind the base of the form he’s attempting to build is a staff-style. His single blade lacks the counterbalance necessary for the ever-shifting momentum of the footwork.

Obi-Wan twirls his blade in hand, thinking. The cyclical, fluid motion lends itself well to speed and flexibility, but without something to compensate for the sharper shifts and turns, its momentum easily turns from an advantage to a disadvantage, resulting in a lack of force and stability.

It isn’t working, and Obi-Wan needs to figure out how to fix that. He wants to build a form that can compliment a single blade – which  _ is _ his preference.

He has decided, in light of his master’s style and his own preferences, to design one that focuses on defense.

At present, Soresu is the strongest defensive form, but it has two strict weaknesses. In its traditional state, Soresu is  _ only _ a defensive form – it doesn’t allow for counter-strikes. Master Ben compensates for this by having one of the most aggressive Soresu styles he’s ever seen, holding his defense while bodily progressing forward, allowing his opponent to remain on the offensive, and yet forcing them to yield ground regardless. He also leans heavily from Soresu to Djem So, when the opportunity for counter-attack does present itself.

But his style is… it requires a great deal of endurance, reserved strength, and the ability to assess, predict, and outwit an opponent whom you may never have faced before. The thousands of hours of combative practice – and the ability to withstand quite a beating - required to perfect such a form would be seen as an excess by most masters who choose to focus on defense over offense in the first place.

Soresu’s second failing is that it focuses almost entirely on  _ personal _ defense.

The weakness of a great many saber forms, in fact, is that they are designed and optimized to be utilized by a single practitioner. Traditionally, outside of one’s padawan, Jedi aren’t used to fighting in tandem with other jedi. Even masters of the same style find it difficult to fight together if they are not sync compatible nor capable of battle-meditation. As a result, partners will often trade off opportunities when engaged against an opponent, one taking the lead at a time just to avoid getting in each other’s way.

But together, two or more jedi who could fight as  _ one _ – they were nearly unbeatable.

But partnerships like that were rare, and the ability highly uncommon, even among Master-Padawan pairs.

Obi-Wan has seen that failing in any number of spars when knights were still challenging his master for his training rights. Looking back, he recognizes it as the problem Sian and he had when fighting that Sith on Chandrila. From the reports, Master Qui-Gon and Master Ben, and then Sian and Master Ben, had the same difficulty when facing the zabrak together.

Obi-Wan tries not to be mad at his friend, but sometimes he thinks that if she had just stepped back, if she hadn’t gotten in Master Ben’s way….

But if he hadn’t been healing Master Qui-Gon, he’s not sure he would have stayed out of the way either. Sian is angry enough at herself for the both of them, and she’s got a lot more pressure on her shoulders besides, so he forgave her. He just has to remind himself of that, on occasion, when his master pauses in the middle of a walk and goes three shades too pale because his knee tweaked in the wrong way, or when the sandstorms roll through and Obi-Wan pretends not to hear the way his master’s breath hitches sharply while he’s pretending to sleep.

It would be easy for him to be bitter, he thinks, but then, it would be easy for Sian to be bitter too – it isn’t like he got  _ her _ master through that day entirely in one piece either.

In light of the experience, and… in the understanding of the battles the jedi might yet face - if Obi-Wan is going to develop a form, and a defensive form at that, he wants to develop one that is designed to be utilized individually  _ and _ by partners.

But that’s a candle’s hope on Ilum if he can’t figure out how to adapt the form to function without the balance of a staff. He can’t even fully explore the advantages and disadvantages of the footwork style he’s trying to emulate, let alone start to build true katas, if he can’t stop  _ falling over himself _ .

He experiments with switching blade-hands and adjusting how and where and when he leans his weight, trying to pair blade motions against the balance of his feet for another half hour before his master calls him back up the ridge.

He got up quite early this morning, waking from dreams about learning saber-play – in the rain, because apparently he misses water  _ that much _ – and slipping out well before first sunrise when he felt too alert to fall back asleep. Second sunrise has only just started, but they agreed to make the trip into Anchorhead today. They’ve enough water now to be comfortable selling some of the excess, and they could do with a few odds and ends – replacement converter-cells for the solar generator, proper tubing to set up a water system for their rapidly growing underground vegetables (Master Ben’s glass attempts shattered much too easily), new filters for the water recycler and the sort.

To be perfectly blunt, however, Obi-Wan also thinks that the both of them could do to talk to another person. He loves his master, but while at times the creeping feeling that they could be the only two people in the universe is peaceful, there are also times where it gets  _ suffocating _ .

Obi-Wan misses his friends and acquaintances. He even misses the Council. He  _ really _ misses Satine.

He can tell his master is hardly immune to the effect, that he gets restless in a way that's usually soothed by comm calling Jango, or Shmi, or visiting the creche, before it relocated. With those options unavailable, he either disappears with his holocron for a while, or he molds glass, or he starts random academic conversations with his padawan. Half the time, Obi-Wan gets the impression that his master doesn’t even care what they’re talking about, so long as they’re talking.

Too long in silence seems to make Master Ben uneasy, the same as Obi-Wan being out away from him for too long does, even with their training bond wide open.

Obi-Wan thinks a trip to Anchorhead will do them both some good, just to be out and about among people for a few hours. Their Tusken acquaintances aren’t exactly conversationalists - not with outsiders - even with Master Ben’s meager grasp of some of their basic hand-signs and calls; and the Jawas…

Obi-Wan needs to pick up some more cheese, while they’re at it.

~*~

“Hey, you’re still alive, mister!”

“Beru Whitesun, that is  _ not _ how you greet a customer!” The older woman at the back of the cheese house calls out, and the girl sitting on the counter smiles widely, unapologetic in the least.

“I didn’t mean it as a  _ bad _ thing.” The girl remarks. “You never know with newcomers, really.” She looks him over in a manner only slightly more forgiving than the first time she assessed him. “You don’t look half as scrubbed over as some of them get, not knowing Tatooine as good as they ought. Suns’ still not favoring you, though.” The girl remarks, eyeing his red-tinged skin. Obi-Wan  _ is _ developing a tan, not that it seems to afford him much protection. He still burns too easily, japoor butter and all, but he’s starting to sprout freckles, and his hair has lightened to a sandy copper, just a smidgen redder than his master’s sun-streaked, silver-touched cinnamon colored locks.

“I doubt they ever will.” Obi-Wan remarks ruefully. “I’m far too fair-skinned for them.”

Beru giggles and hops off the counter, sweeping crumbs of some sort off her apron before straightening up. “Back for more cheese?” She inquires. “We’ve got a few jars of black cheese I don’t think I showed you last time.”

Intrigued, Obi-Wan lets her give him the pitch, and she unseals a jar for him. It’s a soft cheese, but spongy looking. The smell is almost overwhelming, thick and pitchy and almost like…. licorice. Obi-Wan coughs inadvertently, and Beru laughs, taking it away before he manages to come up with some polite decline.

“No?” She shakes her head, resealing the jar and eyeing him up and down. “You don’t seem too interested in the sweets, and you don’t like the strong pallet stuff…. Hmm. Did you like the basil cheese?”

“Very much so. I didn’t last very long.” Obi-Wan admits, letting her evaluate him.

“We’ve got some herb cheeses?” She offers. “They don’t always keep too well, though. You took a long time coming back. Where did you and your pa move out to anyhow? I don’t think any of the regulars mentioned new neighbors.”

“There’s a plot out on the edge of the Dune Sea.” Obi-Wan replies vaguely. “Do you have any spicy cheese?”

“Four different kinds, just a moment.” She goes back around the counter, pulling a tray out from beneath with small sample wedges and wheels.

“Out on the Dune Sea? I don’t think the old Redcole place sold yet…. No, they hadn’t put it on market yet when you last came through….” She pulls a knife and carefully slices off a sliver of a cheese that’s nearly brown in color, offering it to him. “You aren’t talking about that old prospector’s place are you? It’s been empty forever, that’s all the way out the Jundland Wastes!”

Obi-Wan shrugs noncommittally and frowns over the flavor of the cheese. It’s spicy, but it’s almost a sweet spicy, rather than a heat-spicy.

“You don’t like that one, do you?”

Obi-Wan admits it. She tries another, warning him it’s a cooking cheese more than a snacking cheese. She’s right – the cheese itself is very mild, but riddled with black and green peppercorn grinds. It would probably go very well in soup or for cooking vegetables.

She skips over one, telling him bluntly that it’s a strong smelly cheese and she doubts he’d like it, and hands him a small sliver of the fourth with a warning that it’s  _ really _ spicy, and that she hasn’t got any water or milk for him if he finds it  _ too _ spicy.

Obi-Wan reassures her that he’s got his own canteen of milk and pops the piece of cheese in his mouth.

It takes a moment, but heat builds over his tongue, bleeding into the sharpness of the waxy cheese itself, both of which linger after he swallows. Obi-Wan grins. “Perfect.”

She looks a little surprised. “Really, you like it? It almost never sells.”

“Why, Miss Whitesun,” Obi-Wan smiles sweetly at the girl, leaning casually against the counter. “Does that mean I can get a deal?”

~*~

They whittle out an agreeable price for one wheel of spicy cheese, one wheel of plain bantha cheese, and another pouch of basil cheese in about ten minutes, and all told, it’s an enjoyable exchange, some of it in wupiupi and some of it in water trade. Obi-Wan gives her a small glass krayt dragon as a gift on top, one of several of his masters' idle projects. The glass in this one is a hazy white, and Beru seems thrilled.

“It’s Leia!” She beams. “Do you know the story?”

“She who was and always will be free.” Obi-Wan says. “My friend told me about her.”

“Your friend?” She glances at him, a bit more cautious than before.

“Her name is Shmi Skywalker. She was from Tatooine.”

Beru blinks. “A Skywalker… did she make this?”

“Ah, no, my –“ Obi-wan trips up a bit, realizing abruptly that if he says  _ master _ she’ll take it entirely the wrong way, “ – Pa did.”

Beru gives the glass krayt dragon in her fingers a very serious study, and then glances up at Obi-Wan like he’s a puzzle piece she’s trying to fit somewhere. He lifts a brow.

“Are you gonna be in town a bit?” She asks.

“A few hours, perhaps. We won’t leave till the heat dies down.” Obi-Wan replies.

“Okay. You should wait to pick up your cheese. It won’t be any good if you leave it cooking in a crate in the suns, you know. Bring your pa by when you pick it up?” She suggests. “It’s a very nice dragon. I’m gonna go show my grandpa!” She dashes off, leaving Obi-Wan without much choice, really.

Bemused, Obi-Wan calls an agreement after her and makes his way back out. The heat over the sands is starting to ripple with searing effect, so they should probably either find a covered market or a cantina to spend a few hours in.

~*~

“I thought I saw that right the first time!” Beru remarks, and Obi-Wan looks over to find her having skipped right up to his master and poked at the embroidery on his shirt, all winding krayt dragons and little trails of red birds. It’s one of the birds she pokes at. “Grandpa!” She whirls around and calls out to the back.

Master Ben frowns at Obi-Wan, who shrugs. He was just here to pick up cheese.

An older man comes out of the back, hair gone white and sparse, skin bronze with decades of sun, but his eyes a bright match for his granddaughters, even if his face has gone doughy, making any other resemblance difficult to say.

“See!” The girl remarks, pointing at Master Ben.

“Have I…. done something?” The older Mandalorian jedi inquires, the set of his brow forming a line that suggests the answer is going to be well scrutinized.

The elder Whitesun sighs, shaking his head. “Beru, you can’t just pull in folk off the street.”

“But they’re way on out there and they’ve got their own dairy and they’re cannier than they look if Tatooine hasn’t scrubbed them over yet. They know a Skywalker, grandpa! They’ve been told the stories! We’re running out of  _ time _ !” The girl insists shrilly.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” Both Obi-Wan and his master ask, at the same time, with the exact same inflection.

The Whitesun’s blink at them, perplexed.

“Would you mind stepping on in the back, mister… I don’t think Beru ever did actually mention your name.” The old man frowns at his granddaughter again, who does hesitate, looking a touch sheepish as she looks between Obi-Wan and Master Ben and realizes she doesn’t even have a guess.

“Kenobi.” Obi-Wan supplies without thinking about it. His master, however, looks at him with a tight, stained expression, and Obi-Wan flushes a little.

_Maybe_ _I_ _should_ _have_ _said_ _Naasade_.

_ Oops _ .

The grandfather is agitated, underneath his stalwart surface, and Beru is a concoction of nervousness, determination, and shining optimistic trust.

Obi-Wan and his master share a look, and the door that separates the shop from the back closes.

“Mister Kenobi, do you know what that red bird represents on Tatooine?” Grandfather Whitesun inquires.

“Ekkreth, I believe. The slave who makes free.” Master Ben replies.

“The shape-changer. The sky-walker.” Grandfather Whitesun replies. “Do you know what it means to  _ wear _ it?”

It takes only a moment to think it through, really.

“Ah.” Master Ben remarks. “I can see the confusion.”

“Confusion?” Beru whines. “Don’t tell me I was  _ wrong _ .” Her nervousness increases, worry and fear bubbling up.

“Not drastically.” Master Ben reassures her. “But this shirt was a gift, I did not realize I was making a…declaration.”

Master Ben may not have, Obi-Wan thinks, but Shmi Skywalker would have known exactly what she was doing.

Obi-Wan represses a grin at the sheer gumption of the discreet act, and the fact that she had pulled over his master exactly the same kind of underhanded good intent that he so often terrorized everyone else with.

“What he means,” Obi-Wan cuts in, “is that we are willing to help you, if we can. We just weren’t quite aware we were broadcasting the fact. What do you have to ask of us?”

Master Ben shoots him a look, but sighs softly and nods in agreement, turning back to the Whitesuns.

There is a small interrogation first – about their homestead, and how they came to know a Skywalker, and if they understood that helping them might make them considerable enemies of powerful people here on Tatooine.

Master Ben huffs a laugh, at that, which Obi-Wan doesn’t think is funny at all.

Finally, satisfied and tired with the effort that caution and distrust take, Grandfather Whitesun explains the situation to them, that he has a woman in his care – a runaway slave – who will be caught sooner or later. They’ve disabled the tracker in her implant, but it’s too close to her heart for any surgeon they’ve got. She won’t make it past any port without being flagged, and it will detonate if she finds some other way to try and get off planet.

Her own freedom, Grandfather Whitesun explains, is not what they seek.

Her name is Terena Sandsea, and she’s pregnant.

It’s an illicit pregnancy, one not approved by her owner beforehand, but not forcibly terminated either. All she needs, they explain, is shelter long enough to safely give birth, so that the child won’t be chipped and doomed to slavery themself. She’ll allow herself to be caught again, and tell her master she tried to run and lost the baby as a result.

It’s a common enough story on Tatooine.

There might be a cursory search for the child, but no owner would waste too many resources on a whelp they hadn’t intended for in the first place, not if the slave was recovered. Once the scrutiny dies down, the Whitesuns will see the infant safely placed with one of the Trade Clan vessels in the underground network.

The greatest danger now is Terena being discovered before she has the child. There are increased patrols through Anchorhead, and enforcers of that nature were a nasty lot who could cause quite a bit of damage if they put a mind to it.

“I ain’t scared to do it myself.” Grandfather Whitesun explains. “Been in this all my life, and it’s well worth no small amount of hardship. Just…” His eyes stray to his granddaughter, who is young and full of promise and not nearly half as scared as she probably should be. The punishment heaped on runaways pales dramatically in comparison to the punishment dealt to those that helped them, if they’re caught.

A slave has to be returned to their owner alive and able to work, after all.

Obi-Wan and his master share another look.

It’s not even a question, really.

Obi-Wan loads his supplies onto the speeder, which, in addition to cheese and other consumables, includes a pan-flute he thinks he might encourage his master to learn to play and a small, a battered com-link that should work well enough to pick up local audio channels. Then, carefully, helps his master and Grandfather Whitesun load a milk cask into their crate. It sloshes like a near-full milk cask, but it doesn’t  _ weigh _ near as much as a near-full milk cask.

Obi-Wan double checks that they’re putting it right side up. Grandfather Whitesun snorts derisively at him, and points to a mark on the rim.

It’s a faint stain, but it's unmistakable – another red bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: And this chapter breaks 900k for the Desert Storm!


	20. Chapter 20

So that no one may spot their illicit passenger, and so that she won’t be subject to the chill buffet of the cooling evening breeze in wet clothes as they speed across the Jundland Wastes, their passenger is left where she is, and they make all haste in getting back to their abode.

As soon as Obi-Wan pulls up next to the structure, Master Ben is sliding off the back and cracking open the cask.

Obi-Wan gets a glimpse of a very petite frame with a very swollen belly clumsily trying to stand before Master Ben sweeps her up, sopping wet with streaming bantha milk, and carries her inside.

Obi-Wan shuts down the speeder and, curiosity burning, unloads the supplies and pulls the filters for safe storage, trying not to sear his fingers too badly on the engine in the process. He practices his grasp of energy manipulation to accomplish the task, augmented by his recent lessons in Force glass-forging. Then he hauls all their supplies inside, trying to be discreet about his abilities. He doesn’t know how much his master wants to let their guest know about them yet.

Terena Sandsea is revealed to be a rather short twi’lek woman, with one of the loveliest faces Obi-Wan has ever seen, albeit a bit chapped and bedraggled at the moment. Her skin is a mellow, rather plain shade of yellow for one of her people, but made dazzling by intricate designs of gold and henna curling around her face, over her lekku, down her arms and across her feet, as far as he can see. She’s been hastily stripped and wrapped in a blanket and Master Ben is already heating a kettle. Obi-Wan hastily unburdens himself and crosses to their sleeping area, fetching his concordian silk tunic for her to wear. Her own clothes are currently a sodden puddle by her feet, where she’s perched in their single wooden chair, and she watches them both with bright red eyes, blanket clutched tight around her, her lekku drooping with exhausted nerves.

No doubt she has had a very stressful few days, topped off by being cramped for hours in a milk cask.

“Here you are, Lady Sandsea.” Obi-Wan offers her his tunic, and Master Ben sets a cup of tea down on the dented little side-table beside her, and then the both of them busy themselves with carrying the parts they’ve picked up downstairs and taking a few minutes to tidy it away, bickering over whether they ought to change the water filters sooner rather than later.

They both pause when a hesitant, accented voice calls down. “Pardon?”

“Yes?” Master Ben calls back.

“You left cheese on the floor?” It is half a statement and half a query.

His master gives him a look and Obi-Wan covers his face, making his way up the stairs. “Yes, I’m coming to take care of that.” The padawan replies, his mind still trying to capture the grace of the voice he’d just heard, velvety and low and rhythmically alluring, even just speaking.

She’s standing, when he comes up, his tunic loose around her shoulders and taught over the pregnant swell of her abdomen, but still falling past her knees, short as she was. Her red eyes make a keen, quick and curious study of him, the glass tea-cup settled between her hands and the slightly damp blanket abandoned on the chair. Obi-Wan will have to make sure that and her clothes end up with the cycler sooner rather than later.

“Hello.” She says softly, lekku carefully still and limp. Aayla did that sometimes, when she felt she might be in trouble, or was nervous.

Obi-Wan smiles amicably. “Hello there. I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi, at your service.”

“I think you already know my name.” She replies with a hesitant smile of her own. “Thank you.” She adds, with strong feeling.

“Our pleasure.” Master Ben pokes Obi-Wan in the back, making him move. “Ben Naasade.”

Her red gaze flickers between them. “You are not also a Kenobi? Is it his mother’s name?” That was common enough on Tatooine, that children were named after their mother’s lineage.

“It’s complicated.” Master Ben replies ambiguously, his tone a little tight before he clears his throat and softens. “Are you feeling alright, Miss Sandsea?”

Her hand smooths over the curve of her belly, and she peers at Master Ben as she considers her answer. After a moment, her lekku curl and then relax, and she lets out a breath that seems… surprised. “I rather think I am.” She murmurs, fingers rising to touch her lips as a startled sort of smile spreads across them and she blinks rapidly.

Obi-Wan does the courtesy of looking away while she deals with the sudden swell of emotion that surges out of her and splashes across the room, drawn in and out as she breathes unsteadily and takes stock of her situation. He takes the opportunity to scoop up her clothes and the damp blanket she’d been wrapped in and ducks into the fresher, throwing them in the cycler. He’s not sure what they should do with the milk she’d been sitting in, but he’s tempted to stow it and give it to the next jawa caravan that passes through. He doesn’t think they’d care that someone had been bathed in it.

He eyes their sleeping area as he steps past it and sighs. Master Ben, picking up the food supplies Obi-Wan had left on the floor, glances at him.

“I’ll take the floor.” Obi-Wan offers. He’s got a pair of floor cushions that won’t make the worst surface he’s ever slept on.

“Obi-Wan, I can-“ His master starts to argue.

“Take your pallet and get at least a good six hours of sleep like your healers  _ strongly recommend _ ? Yes, M –  _ Pa _ , I rather agree.”

Master Ben sighs disagreeably at him, and Terena glances between them with bitten-down humor.

“You fuss too much.” Master Ben grumbles.

“I fuss exactly the necessary amount.” Obi-Wan retorts, and takes his cheese wheels from his master to put away, stashing the basil cheese in the cooling unit. Master Ben shakes his head and offers Terena a brief ‘tour’, pointing out the fresher, explaining what was downstairs, and informing her on where exactly she was now in relation to Anchorhead. She makes a curious request to step outside, which Master Ben assures her she is free to do.

She looks at the sky a few moments, at the stars and the faint light of Tatooine’s moons, and nods. “I have never been so far south, but the sky-roads are still familiar. Thank you.”

Master Ben looks into her face a moment, lips parting briefly as if to speak before he changes his mind and simply takes one of her hands in a gentle grasp instead, clasping it between his own and offering a faint, weathered smile.

An inexplicable look crosses her face, and she smiles back, just as faint and weathered.

Whatever passes between them in that look is not something Obi-Wan understands. He thinks he should be grateful he does not have the experience to understand.

~*~

After being tripped on and stepped over by Terena for the third time in the middle of the night, either due to her churning stomach or active bladder, Obi-Wan relocates his ‘bed’ away from the wall and into the kitchen.

Where his master trips over him at first light.

“What the blazes-“

Obi-Wan grumbles and sits up, scowling tiredly at the groggy man holding a tea kettle in one hand and bent to grab his knee with the other.

Obi-Wan wipes the scowl off his face immediately. “Did you tweak it?”

“Why are you sleeping in the kitchen?” Master Ben ignores his question, straightening up and stretching his augmented limb in a testing manner, apparently deciding that whatever pain it was, it could be borne.

“I kept getting stepped on.” Obi-Wan replies dryly, keeping his voice low.

“Yes, well, apparently that worked out wonderfully.” His master retorts, just as dry, though a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes and moves, returning his cushions to the sitting area and tossing his blanket over the chair, catching a glimpse of Terena sleeping rather soundly as a lump in the shadows of the alcove that serves them as a bedroom. One lek twitches slightly, and Obi-Wan quietly steps back into the kitchen space with his master, fetching blocks of tea leaves and carefully mixing some gimmer in with a spiced blend – blatantly ignoring that his master makes a face about it. He shaves off some sapir too, in case Terena might like a cup when she wakes. He’d rather not subject her to their uncommon tastes, as touchy as her stomach already was.

It's still cool in the house, and Obi-Wan watches steam start to curl from the kettle with a bit of fixation before abruptly turning to his master, the thoughts that had been chasing circles in his mind for half the night bursting back to the forefront like a sudden firework in the dark.

“You could, you know.” Obi-Wan says, hushed but urgent and utterly unclear. His master gives him a flat, baffled look, still rubbing sleep grit from his eyes.

“Hm?” The enigmatic older jedi scratches at his beard, fingers ruffling the scruff to determine whether or not he was due for a shave, and the look he offers with the inquiring sound is one of utter incomprehension.

Obi-Wan feels heat crawl up his neck and settle in the tips of his ears as he pulls the kettle off the heat before the steam starts whistling shrilly, trying to keep from waking their guest. He fusses over the cups and tea leaves a moment, watching water swirl with color as it strains through the blend and into the glass cups.

He licks his lips and tries not to convey too much feeling when he finally draws a breath and manages to  _ say _ it.

“ _ Be _ Ben Kenobi.” Obi-Wan offers, with trepidatious hope, peeking at the older man.

It’s nothing he hasn’t thought before, a hundred times, a thousand times. He wasn’t the only one – Fett had confessed, in his brusque and indisputable way, that he would have adopted them both in a heartbeat if their damned  _ jetiise _ strictures didn’t find the idea so offensive; that the  _ Naasade _ still tacked on to the older  _ jetii’s _ name bothered him. Obi-Wan had asked him once, if he could adopt his own  _ baji’buir _ . Fett hadn’t really answered, but the pinched, dubious look he’d given the padawan had quelled him from making the offer to his master.

_ He gave his name away, jet’ika. It’s up to him to choose when to claim one again _ .

The younger man took that to heart, but still, he thought, maybe if the offer was at least out there, if his master knew for certain that he had a name to claim, if he wanted to… maybe it would help.

Master Ben lets out an airless, hollow laugh, like that is the most wretched joke he’s ever come across.

Obi-Wan looks away, but he can’t hide the way his spirit flinches at his master’s reaction. “Sorry.” The padawan mutters, throat tight.

“No, Obi-Wan….” His master winces after, but can’t seem to summon what it us he wants to say.

He tries, at least, after a soft, helpless exhalation that makes Obi-Wan look back up to meet his gaze.

“Don’t be.” The older man utters, eyes shimmering like pools in the dim half-light of the early dawn, fragile and full of untold shadows beneath. “Don’t be sorry.” He repeats hoarsely, reaching for Obi-Wan but hesitating to actually touch him. “Thank you, it’s just…. I….” His fingers curl back, and he drops his hand as the words dry up and shrivel away, leaving the two of them standing there, staring at each other across an invisible gulf.

Obi-Wan, with a surge of anger that strikes suddenly and viciously,  _ hates _ it.

But before he can do anything, before either of them can, a startled gasp jolts them both from their staring, deadlocked trance, as Terena jolts awake with a spark of alarm before slowly recalling her surroundings, her arms wrapped nervously around her stomach.

Obi-Wan bites down on his feelings, presses one spicy gimmer tea into his master’s startled hand – which nearly drops it - and takes the other to their guest, calling out a soft ‘good morning’.


	21. Chapter 21

“ – is  _ not _ about  _ sand _ .” Ben argues.

“You’ve said that, and it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t understand it.” Obi-Wan growls, dragging his fingers through his hair across the table from Ben.

“How many grains are there?” Ben asks blandly.

“I don’t know!”

“Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan, had you said any other answer, do you think I could contradict you?” Ben proposes. “You have not once considered asking me if  _ I _ know how many grains of sand there are.” He could find them all, surely; grasp each and every one, but that had nothing to do with their number and everything to do with how he perceived them. Something he was hoping his padawan, through exposure and stubbornness and the attempt to solve an unsolvable problem, would figure out.

The padawan in question glares at him, a flush suffusing his face. “I don’t understand.” He repeats, through gritted teeth, one of those phrases that Ben knows calls to mind too much of his childhood torment, of his inability to grasp lessons in quite the same way, with quite the same ease, as his peers.

Ben sighs. “ _ Verd’ibir _ – I gave you an impossible task.”

“Why?” Obi-Wan blurts out, frustrated beyond measure.

“Because with the Force, nothing  _ is _ impossible.”

“ _ Baji’buir _ , you are driving me  _ crazy _ .”

“Perhaps.” Ben admits freely. “How fine a line is there, however, between madness and enlightenment?” He inquires. He had made half his own discoveries of greater understanding of the Force in moments of desperation and delirium. Many jedi did, glimpsing enlightenment when they were pushed beyond the edges of what could be borne. Enlightenment – or darkness. It was a dangerous endeavor, a path most jedi took with much more caution, and one that Ben had hoped starting so young would have Obi-Wan further ahead on, but if needs must…

If needs must, he will  _ push _ the boy.

That was one of the reasons he took him so far out away from everything he knew.

“Stop.” Obi-Wan protests, shaking his head and flinging up his hands. “Stop it. I’m walking away.”

“Go meditate.” Ben instructs.

“I will.” Obi-Wan snaps, with that despicable pinch to his brows that says he knows his emotions are out of line and need to be settled. But that isn’t what Ben was referring to.

“No, Obi-Wan.” Ben repeats firmly. “Go meditate on  _ this _ .” He pushes the jar of sand at the teenager, whose expression goes through a complicated permutation before settling on mutinous as he snatches the jar off the table.

“We are in a  _ desert _ .” He mutters. “What’s the point of the jar?”

Ben arches a brow.  _ Maybe you’ll figure that out _ , he thinks hopefully.

Obi-Wan just exhales forcibly, tucking the jar in the crook of his arm. “How long?” He inquires, glancing at the sky out the window, where the suns have only just started sliding down. It’s still baking outside.

“As long as necessary, I think.” Ben replies, leaving his padawan to take that as he will.

Obi-Wan nods sharply and stalks out of the house, heading up the ridge where he can hopefully find some shade at this time of day.

In his absence, Ben watches dust motes drift on the sunbeams pouring in through the upper windows, trying not to feel the sudden quiet like a too-familiar shroud.

Things between him and his padawan have grown stiff, awkward and tense in turns, his padawan’s patience thinned by hurt feelings. Obi-Wan shifts between frustrated anger and fearful anxiety, both blurred by worry and kept in check by a mulish determination to carry on.

Ben can’t keep putting their conversation off, not with it bleeding into everything, simmering just beneath the surface of every day here and seeping out of his nightmares.

He’s just… he’s scared.

And ashamed.

He doesn’t want to hurt his padawan.

And he doesn’t want to face how much it will hurt if Obi-Wan feels betrayed, or disappointed, or horrified. If Ben breaks his trust, or his heart, because of who Ben was, because of who Obi-Wan could have been… his padawan has freely admitted, after all, that he has long been afraid to wind up like Ben. To see just how close to home that fear is, that possibility…

“Is it alright to come up now?” Terena calls softly, from the top of the cellar stairs. Ben blinks dry eyes and turns to her. There is, admittedly, little for her to do here but wait for her child to come into the world. Neither Ben nor Obi-Wan are midwives, though Obi-Wan has a bit more basic medical education in that regard than his master does, but she’s not far off by either of their estimations.

Still, idleness can get the best of a person.

Ben and Obi-Wan have forgone saberplay, in light of their guest and their desire to remain as innocuous as possible, which is why Obi-Wan is focusing on his meditations and his coursework and Ben spends a great deal more time with his holocron, or walking up and down the ridge. In the morning, Ben goes through his physical therapy exercises, and Obi-Wan and Terena do stretches together. She is a singer and a server at her master’s bar, and she teases Obi-Wan quite thoroughly by insisting he would make a lovely entertainer. She spends most of her day, however, down in the cellar, enjoying the faint mist and greenery of their little garden with a rapture borne of a lifetime living in such an arid place. Obi-Wan dug a learning program out of his datapad’s core software, and she spends many hours teaching herself how to read, with Ben’s occasional assistance. Their evenings are quiet, or spent telling stories.

The simplicity of it, the ease of it - it burrows under Ben’s skin and festers, scraping and wrong feeling and he tries not to think too hard about why.

“We didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Ben rises from the table and offers her a polite smile.

She has been a slave all her life, a servant. False propriety is her survival skill. She sees right through him. But discretion is a survival skill too, and she does not call him on it.

“We were merely arguing over one of his lessons. He is frustrated with his progress.” Ben explains. “Are you hungry?” He steps into the kitchen. She doesn’t eat much, but she eats smaller portions more regularly than Ben and Obi-Wan tend to take their meals.

“I am.” She replies honestly, with a demurely sheepish smile that is every bit as false as his was. Hers is prettier, though. “He has many lessons.”

“He does.” Ben agrees.

“They are not the lessons a farmer teaches his son.” She says simply, a curious observation, made without judgement. “This is not your life, I think, though you are decent at it.”

Ben purses his lips, mixing broth and powdered bread. “No.” He replies, not turning to look at her as he does. “No, this is not our life.”

~*~

Obi-Wan shoves his jar of sand into the dust on a ledge overlooking the Dune Sea and drops himself down after, in the meager protection of shade offered by a spur of lightning-struck stone. Heat melts through his clothes from the sun-baked ground, shimmering off the dunes below and wafting off the dry breeze.

Obi-Wan spends most of an hour trying to reconcile his senses to the heat before he can even hope to focus on the lesson he’s trying to understand, as opposed to the taught sting of prior sunburn on his exposed, japoor butter salved hands and the beading sweat rolling down between his shoulder-blades.

Trying to focus on a jar full of sand when he has a literal desert sweeping out in front of him seems a bit ridiculous, all told, and his masters infuriating questions swirl around his brain.

It’s not about the sand.

He gets that it’s not about the sand.

Well, he  _ doesn’t _ , but he assumes it's some sort of metaphor, or…

Obi-Wan glares at the jar, and the rippling air of the horizon, and the edge of the sun-blaze in the sky.

_ I have a jar of sand. I have a desert. I have me _ .  _ An impossible problem that isn’t impossible _ .

What is that supposed to  _ mean _ ?

~*~

As long as necessary, his master had said.

Obi-Wan doesn’t examine too closely whether it is obedience, stubbornness, or spite that keeps him out on the sands, long after the suns set and the chill set in and the moons tracked their way across the way.

His attention to the lesson, to the sand in his grasp of the Force, both within the jar and without, slips and meanders, at times. He has to adjust himself to the cold much as he did the heat, when it steals his focus in shivers and creeping numbness. He has to absolve his focus of the aches that come from being still so long, and the clenching feel of hunger. Of thirst.

He blinks and loses himself in the glitter of stars, for a while, just… feeling them, opening his senses to the gossamer pathways that shimmered between them, and everything reflected in the light they cast outwards and the forces they pulled inwards. Starlight teases at the desert, at the shifting sands, at the power lurking beneath that Obi-Wan is careful to glide across and not disturb too deeply. It doesn’t feel Dark, but that does not mean it isn’t dangerous.

He jerks back when the horizon pulls at him, when the sands and the starlight seem too close and tangible, his own self fading, feeling distant and less substantial.

Then he wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have. He is here to learn of the Force, isn’t he? Maybe he  _ should _ let himself go farther.

He’s lost his focus though, and it takes time to settle again from the scare. A breeze ruffles at his hair, tugging at his clothes, the dunes whispering, seething, sighing.

Obi-Wan focuses, reaching and reaching, trying to wrap himself up in the sands, or the sands up in himself, and feeling too small to complete the effort, clumsy and finite. Like he’s the glass jar, trying to fit the whole desert inside and failing because he just isn’t  _ enough _ . Either it’s more than he can manage and it all spills out, or he takes in too much and risks shattering.

Creche warnings ring in his head, and his focus falters. Younglings were cautioned against reaching for too much power, against diving too deep into the Force.

_ But I’m not a youngling anymore _ .

_ Focus, Obi-Wan _ .

He breathes in slow and deep, the desert air stirring in his lungs.

Slow.

Deep.

Quiet.

Scales scrape against stone, a sand adder winding through the dust, tongue flickering against the air. It nudges along his knee and slithers over his lap, and Obi-Wan lets the desert wash through him.

He breathes in, slow and deep.

He exhales in tandem with the breeze. Sand drifts upwards, carried on the flow of the Force around him, rotating lazily as the sand adder slips away, winding into a crack in the stone.

Time fades away as the wheel of stars above him turns, and moonglow is replaced by the spread of dawn. Obi-Wan is more aware of the light changing the air in the sky than he is of his stiff muscles and his parched throat.

_ Maybe I should stop _ .

The sky washes silver, then yellow, then blue. Warmth seeps off the horizon, and creatures stir under the sands, eddying out of shadow and nook to bask, before the glow of it becomes a glaring furnace.

_ Maybe I should…. _

_ No….as long as necessary _ .

He could find it, couldn’t he? The answer he was looking for. The understanding. His master believes he can. And if Master Ben believes he can, then he can.

It is out here, somewhere. It had to be.

_ It’s why I’m here, isn’t it _ ?

If he could just  _ reach _ .

He reaches, out and out and out.

Sweat rolls on his brow; evaporates. His pulse thrums, something he’s dimly aware of and pays no mind to; a sluggish rushing in his ears to match the slow, heavy thump of his heart, weighing like a stone in his chest.

He  _ reaches _ .

The air ripples on the horizon, and the Force swirls.

The deep desert pulls at him.

If he just went far enough.

If he just went farther.

If he just let go.

If he just….


	22. Chapter 22

“Your boy is still outside.” Terena informs him, as she has informed him several times since last evening, her brow furrowed unhappily as she toyed with the pan-flute in her hands. She’s made an attempt at teaching him the instrument, and since Ben can’t mold glass without subjecting himself to a great many questions, he’s making an effort to pick up the new skill.

“He is.” Ben agrees neutrally, having had a very restless night, with half his mind out on the dunes, his dreams blurring into his waking moments, confusing both.

“Is he being punished?” Terena finally brokers the question, her tone low but firm. It’s good, he thinks, that she feels safe enough here to display displeasure with him.

“I rather think I’m the one being punished.” Ben mutters, stroking at his beard and trying not to leak stress as he worries. “He’s just being stubborn. He’ll come in when he’s ready.”

This was a form of rebellion he himself had rarely indulged in – but he _had_ indulged in it. A belligerent sort of defiance, throwing obedience in his masters face like it proved something. He’d done it as a young master once or twice too, when he felt that the Council overstepped themselves in regards to Anakin, _his_ padawan.

It had never helped his temper that there was no such recourse he could perform in regards to his lack of control over the sessions the Chancellor insisted on having with the boy. It made him sensitive to and more sore over any other meddling – even with those whom, he realized in retrospect, had only been trying to _help_ him, and whose help he, out of his depth as he had been, very well could have used.

Qui-Gon had endured such tactics with pinched disgruntlement, but it always seemed to irritate Yoda the most; that Ben would exemplify how perfectly good a jedi he could be while making a point of how utterly unhappy it made him at the same time.

 _A punishment, the life of a jedi, is not_. The old master would say.

 _No_ , Ben would reply, staring the elder master down and holding his padawan strongly in mind. _It shouldn’t be_.

Terena purses her lips and plays a few unhappy notes before a sour expression crosses her face and she sets it aside, closing her eyes and swallowing tightly. Ben fetches her a cold glass of sapir for her to sip, aware that she’s been having some difficulty with acid reflux.

 _He’ll come in_ , Ben assures himself, as he retreats downstairs to tend to the vegetables. Some of the beans and early root vegetables would be ready to harvest soon, and leaves could be plucked from some of the collard greens – they were getting big enough now.

 _He’ll come in when he’s ready_.

He was sure Obi-Wan wasn’t foolish enough to cause himself harm just to spite his master. _Anakin_ , maybe, but not Obi-Wan.

Though with Anakin, if Ben was being honest, that was less causing himself harm so much as throwing himself in harms way (of which there _was_ a difference) just to prove he was ready for whatever it was he wanted next. Ben had never managed to impress upon him that the immaturity of such actions told his master that no, he most certainly was _not_ ready, but Anakin was _always_ rushing ahead and unwilling to hear it unless it was one of the times that he’d nearly driven Ben to tears, and then it was all apologies and resolution – earnest enough, but never long lasting.

Anakin tried, and Ben tried, but all the trying in the universe couldn’t make that boy conform to a mold that would never fit him.

The suns rise high, heat billowing around the house, and Ben forces himself several times not to march outside and order his padawan back in.

 _Has he had any water_?

Ben _knows_ he hasn’t eaten.

 _He’s a Senior Padawan very nearly ready for Knighthood, he doesn’t need me fussing over him_ _for_ meditating _, of all things_.

Obi-Wan was going to have a wicked sunburn, at this rate.

 _This is foolishness_ , Ben thinks, stewing about it. _I’m his master, I should just tell him to come in_.

But Ben also knows that Obi-Wan needs to learn to test his boundaries without Ben’s hovering. He _does_ protect him too much, and that will not serve him well if he is to be a Jedi Knight.

He makes lunch for Terena, who would nibble on anything he set out but hadn’t quite convinced herself to simply go through their rations on her own whenever she might be hungry. Ben himself can’t summon an appetite for anything more substantial than half a cup of milk. He putters back and forth, eyes drifting to and from the door, though he can sense well enough that Obi-Wan is still up on the ridge.

Under the suns.

In the blazing heat.

 _I should have just spoken to him_. _Is he that angry with me_?

But perhaps it was self-centered to think that Obi-Wan’s behavior was focused on Ben at all. Obi-Wan would always be more self-destructive than outwardly spiteful – it was just his nature. He had been issued a challenge, and he could be very tenacious when challenged. Most of the time, that was a good thing.

 _Most_ of the time.

Maybe Ben _should_ call him in.

Terena sighs about once every fives minutes, though whether from heat, the pressure on her abdomen from a very active baby, or for being put out with his behavior he won’t assume. She retains a stunning sense of balance for one so heavily pregnant, so Ben had quickly stopped stepping over any time she looked ready to move, or to sit or stand, because Shmi had not approved of his fussing and the look in Terena’s red eyes this morning when he had tried to step in to assist her in her stretches had spoken much of the same attitude. She slips out the door and he busies himself cleaning dishes that don’t really require as much attention as he gives them.

A frantic shout has him shattering every piece of glassware in reach before his body engages his brain and he bolts out of the hovel.

Ben hasn’t tried running yet, and running on sand is twice as difficult, but the rest he’s given his augmented limb the last several days and the attention to his physical therapy exercises has apparently done him a favor – nothing tweaks sharply or jars painfully as he runs up the hill, skipping over uneven bedrock with ease and finding purchase in loose dust.

He catches up to Terena and surpasses her, spying what it was that made her cry out –

His padawan, sprawled unconscious on the ground.

~*~

The suns are locked on the horizon, glaring white and red against a lavender band of sunset, the burning illusion of fire lakes flickering in the dips of the dunes. The sky turns black above him, speckled with flaring stars, and behind him, a desert storm thunders and rumbles, swallowing the world.

He walks for hours.

For _days_ , it feels like.

But the suns never move, and the stars dance overhead, whirling and watching, but never disappear.

He can hear water, he swears he can.

Rain, falling; Tides, rushing in and out; Springs, burbling quietly. Falls, hissing with mist.

He has to keep walking.

He needs to find it.

His feet are bare; bleeding. He doesn’t know why. He stumbles, weak and dizzy and humbled by the endless desert, by the unforgiving suns, by the ever-coming storm rushing up behind him. Sand swirls, strafing against his skin.

He’d cry if he could.

Or sink into the sands and let the desert claim him, let himself disappear into the stars. It would be simple, it would be _easy_ – he’s not even sure he’s real, right now.

The breeze whistles, whispers, secrets pressing against his skin; truths, lies, nonsense and possibilities.

It feels like madness, really.

What did his master say about madness?

 _Who_?

His fingers curl into the sand. He can feel beneath – weight and pressure heavy and sinking; roots and bones, seeds and eggshells; forgotten things and things that haven’t yet happened.

 _I shouldn’t be here_ , he thinks.

 _I’ve been here before_ , he thinks.

The storm surges, crackling with lightning, nothing but power and potentia, reaching all the way down to everything that ever was, and all the way up to swallow the stars and everything that ever would be – ever _could_ be.

It would take him, if he let it.

 _Drukka be drukka_ , the sands whisper, the tongue teasingly familiar and unfamiliar; he knows the meaning nonetheless.

 _Freedom or death_.

But there’s only one word, really, and it means the same thing.

He looks back into the storm, and it waits for him, neither benevolent nor malicious. Just inevitable.

Obi-Wan digs his fingers into the sand, bows his head and pushes back onto his bleeding feet.

 _I’m not finished yet_ , he tells the wind – or the wind tells him.

He pushes for the horizon that is ever out of reach.

“Water.” He rasps, a delirium, a plea, a prayer.

He is aching, hollow, bereft.

He can hear it, he can _feel_ it, like it is all around him, like he could _drown_ in it, but there is nothing but desert.

Why can’t he _find_ it?

The light of the twin suns is glaring; blinding.

Between one staggering step and the next, a figure seems to step right out from between the suns, clad in shining white, flowers spilling from her silver-blonde hair.

White flowers.

Lilies.

“Satine.” He smiles as he stumbles to his knees again, beggared hands falling into the smooth gossamer silk of her skirts as he bows into her presence like a balm. “Satine, _water_.”

She folds one hand against his cheek, cool and gentle, tilting his head up to look at her. She hands him a chalice.

He would cry if he could.

The cup is empty.

“Can I have some water, please.” Obi-Wan begs. “Satine, please.”

She laughs, carding her fingers through his hair, the sound fond, the touch loving.

“Why are you laughing?” He looks up at her, her silver-blue eyes shining like moonrise. “Please, Satine….” He struggles to keep his eyes open, to keep upright. “I need water.”

He begs and begs, and she keeps giving him an empty cup.

He drops it, sinking against the ground, against her skirts, in despair. He would cry if he could.

Satine drops to her knees and takes his face in her hands, forcing him to lift his head, to look at her, her gaze gone as sharp as the glint off beskar as her fingers curl into his hair.

“Pick it up, Obi-Wan.” She demands.

She’s beautiful, and she’s angry at him, and he wants to kiss her. The stars, the sandstorm, the horizon, it’s all starting to feel very far away. Everything but her feels very far away.

“It’s empty, Satine.” He feels like he’s crumbling, like he’ll turn to dust, just another thing forgotten, another thing yet to be. “There’s no water.”

“Pick it up!” She shouts at him.

“There’s no water!” He shouts back, temper whipped up like a sudden wind, slipping away just as quickly. He hasn’t the strength, the substance, for temper.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi, you fool!” She scolds him, looking like she’d give him a proper Mandalorian shaking if she weren’t already the only thing holding him up. He wants to laugh and agree; _A fool, yes, I’m a fool_. He leans into her instead. She caresses his cheek and presses a kiss to chapped lips, chaste and fierce.

He could fall into her and disappear, he thinks. He could be happy. At peace. Absolved.

He loves her.

“Obi-Wan, you fool.” She repeats softly, and he focuses; he tries to focus, for her. She presses the cup into his fumbling hands again. “Of course the cup is empty. _You_ are the river.”


	23. Chapter 23

Sand whips against the side of the house on a buffet of wind, slapping Ben across the side. He glares towards the horizon, where a sandstorm has kicked up and threatens to come over them all too quickly.

Ben hastens through getting the vaporators laid down, the speeder secured next to the house, and the solar generator shut down before it sucks too much dust into its mechanical system.

Inside, Terena has hopefully gotten Ben’s _di’kut_ of a padawan cooled down. Dehydration, sunburn, and dangerously progressed heat exhaustion wreaked havoc on his body, insofar as they could tell, so they shoved him in a cold water shower once Ben had carried him back down the ridge.

Leaving him on the floor of the stall while Terena dribbles water past his chapped lips is a decidedly painful experience, but Ben feels the coming storm stirring up the aches in his scars as surely as Terena felt it in her lekku when she’d given him a worried warning.

Ben beats the sand out of his robe and ducks back in the house, going to the back to seal the ventilation.

“He’s cooled down, but I can’t move him.” Terena says, framed in the doorway to the refresher with one hand on the frame and one over her stomach. “He is too heavy, and he hasn’t woken.” She adds softly.

Ben nods, and politely gestures for her to go ahead and come out and sit down. The stress is likely no good for her, unavoidable though it was.

Obi-Wan wouldn’t wake, Ben knows. He’d known the moment he dropped to his knees in the sand by his padawans side. The foolhardy, stubborn little _manda jetii_ had walked his consciousness right out of his body.

Ben moves into the ‘fresher and pulls Obi-Wan from the stall. The padawan is stripped to his underthings, damp hair plastered to his brow, his skin painfully red where it had been exposed, and a finer red where even his shirts had been too thin a protection. Ben loops an arm under his shoulders and the other under his knees and lifts him like a child, slumped against his chest and over his shoulder, as if he were a drowsy youngling and not a deadweight teenager.

It’s a far gentler carry than the way Ben had slung him over his shoulders to get him back down the ridge, bruises already forming across his padawan’s ribs from that.

Ben moves him into the sleeping alcove, laying him down on a pallet. Terena unobtrusively brings over the air rotator from the cellar, setting it up to blow across the pallet. It’s not truly necessary at this point, but it is thoughtful. Ben tucks the boy's limbs in, eases the turn of his head against the pillow to avoid strain, and then sinks down on the edge of the pallet, laying a palm across the teenager’s brow as the sky starts really howling.

Terena makes a small sound of discomfort, reaching up to massage the base of her lekku. Ryloth – the world of origin for the twi’lek race - was prone to storms like these too. Anthropological studies suggest that the development of their lekku, and their sensitivity to barometric pressure - among other things - had served as a vital warning system in their early evolutionary development. It might have been useful, but was not exactly a comfortable phenomenon.

Ben rubs his thumb absently across his padawans brow. “Would you like to try and get some rest?” Ben suggests. It will be a while before the brunt of the storm really hits them, and another while longer before it’s fully passed. It is evening already, and will likely be a restless night.

Terena shakes her head, lips pursing. “I never can sleep through these.” She says with a sigh, and lays her hands over the swell of her stomach, making soothing motions. “It is best if I move around. I will go downstairs.” She leans over to press her hand over his and squeeze, briefly, offering him a sympathetic look before she turns away. “Make sure to keep giving him water. Just a few drops at a time.”

“I know.” Ben acknowledges. “Miss Sandsea, thank you.”

She glances back at him, red gaze soft and full of feeling. She touches her fingers to her chest, then her lips, and then gestures them out towards him. It feels both like a benediction and an admonishment, that gesture.

Ben smiles wanly and bows his head. Gratitude is complicated, and no small thing, among the Amavikka.

She retreats downstairs to pace, leaving Ben with the screaming sky and his padawan’s shallow breathing.

~*~

Ben uses a wet cloth to gently dribble water past his padawan’s chapped, sunburnt lips, brushing a gentle healing touch over skin that will most certainly end up peeling. There’s no real help for it now – sunburn is one of those processes that simply has to be gone through with, if you don’t get to it soon enough. All treatment can do is speed up the process.

Ben’s stomach churns at how lifeless his padawan feels, how dim and far away the essence of him is, bile crawling up his throat at how _empty_ it seems beneath the boy's skin. Ben compulsively smooths his hair back and resituates himself and his padawan, taking a meditative position at the top of the pallet, resting Obi-Wan’s pillow and head in his lap and trying not to give in to dread at how slack the boy is, how Ben’s sense of him falls somewhere in the blurry middle between asleep and dead.

 _I hope you learn something from this, my young, foolish padawan_ , Ben thinks, settling himself to meditate in search of his wayward charge.

He’s only entered a light trance, opening his center up to the greater flow of the Force, however, when Obi-Wan starts twitching, seems to rouse.

His fingers flick and curl, dragging at the blanket beneath him. For a long minute, Ben watches the curious movement, and only registers when the boy sucks in a gasp that for all that long minute, the padawan hadn’t been _breathing_.

The dust gale buffets the house, scraping and slamming, making the windows creak and the walls rasp.

Ben’s throat tightens, and he lays a palm over a sunburnt brow.

He jerks it back, as eyes shift beneath closed lids before weakly flickering open.

That is _not_ his padawan.

The color seems to radiate out of his eyes, more the hazy, star-glimmering shadow of dusk across the dune sea than the stormfront blue-grey they should be.

The body chokes for air for several excruciating seconds, before mellowing into a lurching rasp of sharp, deliberate inhale-exhales.

Ben can’t move, held in place by shock and the sheer, overwhelming presence of the power that saturates the room, potent and ageless and utterly unfathomable.

Whatever it is, it seems to struggle to reconcile itself with a mortal body, and it takes a long, excruciating moment for those depthless eyes to focus, for the uneven twitches and spasms of Obi-Wan’s limbs and muscles to settle.

“Are you hurting him?” Ben demands, when he finds that he can breathe.

“We….” It comes out an airless whisper, whether due to Obi-Wan’s physical condition or the entity's unfamiliarity with the use of vocal chords, Ben can’t determine. “… endeavor not to.”

The voice bleeds half into his mind anyways, raw and overwhelming, drowning out his own thoughts. It’s Obi-Wan’s voice, it’s Obi-Wan’s face, and everything about it is _wrong_.

“What _are_ you?” Ben grits out, trying to focus past the pain in his head. “What do you want with him?”

Ben doesn’t have a hope of stopping it, whatever it was – its power was infinitely beyond him.

He’s praying it can be reasoned with.

“We already have it.” It replies airily, sending fingers of ice digging into Ben’s spine.

“What have you done to him?” Ben whispers on a trembling breath.

Obi-Wan's lip’s pull oddly. A split opens in the bottom one, flushing red with blood before Ben recognizes the attempt for a smile. “ _You_.”

 _Me_?

The sandstorm screams outside, screams in his head, sharp and loud and blinding behind his eyes-

The sandstorm.

 _That out there is the Fury, Ben_. Beru’s voice murmurs from memory.

 _That out there is Lukka_.

Ben buckles under the pressure, grabbing his head, trying to press back against the pain.

It sighs, and the storm quiets, inside and out. “So fragile.” It whispers.

“Me.” Ben croaks. “You’re the thing that… you changed me. You brought me here.”

It frowns curiously. “We _did not_ change _you_ . We changed _this one_ –“ a hand drags upwards, and presses dully against Obi-Wan’s own chest, “ – _through_ you, and through this one, another will change, and through them….”

Ben’s skull is ringing, so many unanswered questions quietly consigned to being unknowable suddenly screaming for the chance at resolution.

“So the future, what happens to my people… it _will_ be different?” Ben pleads, risking touching him again, laying a hand unbidden over Obi-Wan’s freckled shoulder. It feels not unlike laying his hand against an ignited lightsaber, with nothing but a thin shield of power and faith preventing him from losing it.

He needs to know. He _needs_ to _know_.

 _What I’ve done, is it enough_?

 _Have I changed our fate_?

“We sowed the whirlwind of destiny, but what he reaps…” It sighs with another sharp, inexperienced inhale-exhale and seems to taste the blood on Obi-Wan’s lip for the first time, “It is not about you, little wanderer. It is not about your people. His reckoning is to determine far greater fates.”

 _Anakin_ , Ben realizes.

Anakin. Of _course_ this is about Anakin. Everything always is, isn’t it?

 _Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One, destined to bring balance to the Force_.

Ben loves him. He can’t not love him, but _gods_ sometimes he hates himself for loving him.

Tears burn behind his eyes, pain and uncertainty and – _fear,_ twisting up in his chest. “But-“

A hand touches his cheek, a strange look on a familiar face, perplexed and pleased and pitying. _Something took pity on you_ , Ben has heard once. It is far more unsettling an idea now, than it was reassuring then.

“We have already interceded more than we meant to.” The hand drops from Ben’s face, trailing knuckles across the pillow and down onto the other pallet almost leisurely. Ben shudders faintly at the sight – he doesn’t like the idea of this entity _settling in_. “The scales are ours to judge, not to balance.” Fingers tease under the pillow on the other pallet, fishing out the small book Ben had left there. Twilight eyes glance over, and it draws the book to Obi-Wan’s chest, teasing at the unreadable pages, scraping a nail along the edge, threatening to tear. “Our interference gives others _ideas_ ; young and foolish as they are.” It sighs and tosses the book aside. At a glance, Ben almost believes that the pages are blank – as if the ink and all its secrets have fled – but that isn’t possible, is it?

But maybe it is. There is a strange power in those pages – one apparently aware enough to be as utterly terrified of the entity possessing his padawan as the Jedi Master is.

“I think I know a thing or two about young fools.” Ben chuffs threadily, his fingers still gripping Obi-Wan’s shoulder hard enough to bruise.

He wants his padawan back.

It laughs in Obi-Wan’s soft tones, and the storm outside ripples and cracks, thunder shattering the sky.

“Oh, little wanderer…. Perhaps it would have been kinder to leave you.” Those eyes stare into him, stare through him, all of Obi-Wan's youth shrouded in unspeakable power, the voice it is using an unfair taunt, even if it is unintended. “You would not have been so lost.”

“Why are you here?” Ben sighs weakly, feeling small and adrift and unsheltered.

“We were curious.” It replies, after another sharp inhale-exhale. “We thought you came looking for us. This one…”

“I wasn’t looking for you and neither was he. I didn’t know you were something that could even be found.” Ben utters, shaken by the realization. “I just want my padawan back.”

“We did not take him.” It remarks blankly.

“I know.” Ben says, stealing back his own equilibrium. _He wandered off on his own_. “But you are _in his body and I rather need it_.”

It doesn’t reply, it just vanishes, and Ben reels at the sudden release of pressure, undershirt soaking with sweat, his mind rather worse for wear. He cannot discern the pain of the storm's pressure from the pain of having leveraged himself against a power that could have unmade him with less effort than an absentminded thought. He just _aches_.

Obi-Wan’s body falls still, breath falling shallow again, and Ben – when he has the time and the wherewithal – will worry about what having been host to what Ben might attempt to guess was a primordial power of the Cosmic Force might have done to him.

For now, he bows his head in relief, cupping his padawan’s cheek, and scrapes in all his ragged edges. He tries to center himself, focusing on the bond that binds master to padawan, hoping he can reel Obi-Wan back in.

When this is all said and done, Ben is going to _shake_ that boy.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Booklindworm for taking on back-editing as I post! Corrections are now being made and I am getting them uploaded as I post the next chapter.

The sky is a clear, burning blue. Rain falls from it, glittering in sunbeams and turning to soft sparks of light.

Obi-Wan drifts, floating on sunlit water.

Beneath, in the depths, the entire galaxy seems to swirl and gleam and invite him deeper. There is no shore, just a distance fading into shining white mist.

He floats, and he has never felt so utterly serene.

He lifts his hand, and a brilliant, clear stream follows, burning with the glow of sunlight, following the current of his movements in a dazzling ribbon. Droplets scatter off, striking skin with ticklish flourishes of warmth and light.

Something pulls at him, calling him away.

He doesn’t want to go.

It calls harder, rippling the waters lapping against his skin, buoying him up. The rain that falls as sparks scatters across the surface with energetic flashes.

He doesn’t _want to go_.

‘…. _back. Come back. Obi-Wan, padawan, ner verd’ibir, come back._ ’

‘ _Please_.’

‘ _Can you hear me_?’

‘ _Obi-Wan Kenobi, come back….. come back_.’

The surface playing underneath his fingertips is both at once a gentle ripple of water and a static-prone knit of something coarse and woven. He feels nothing but the energy flowing through him, around him, _from_ him; energy and peace that could carry him unto eternity; and yet he feels, he feels… a soft rasp of pressure – a worried brush of lips pressed against his brow.

 _Hears_ that voice, soft and urgent. Familiar.

‘ _… please come back to me_.’

Fingers, worn with callouses, clasped around his own; the soothing brush of a thumb back and forth across his knuckles.

It pulls, and it _pulls_ –

~*~

Obi-Wan wakes like he’s been plunged into water, into quicksand, like he’s been buried and drowned and cast into space – gasping and terrified. Images bleed behind his eyes, feelings and sensations bleeding out of them. He remembers Satine, the empty chalice -

 _You are the river_.

She pushed him. She pushed him backwards and the world swallowed him up, dizzying and disorienting and _too much_ ; He felt like he’d be crushed, or pulled apart, or consumed, and it seemed to last an _eternity_ , and then –

 _You are the river_.

\- and then he just….. accepted it.

Stopped fighting it, stopped fearing it, and the madness had gone away.

He was… floating.

Safe. Tranquil.

At peace.

Waking from that is just as disorienting and debilitating as getting there, and the reward is far less enticing – he feels _awful_.

Chilled, except that the slightest movement seems to lance fire across the skin of his neck and shoulders. His muscles twinge and ache, threatening cramps; his throat burns, mouth dry, tongue feeling swollen, lips stinging with broken skin. He feels weak, and he whimpers.

A hand tightens on his, a scruffy cheek pressed to his brow turning, and the scrape of that action, slight though it is, hurts. Obi-Wan tosses his head, lurching away.

“Padawan?”

A hand slides out of his, and then he’s being touched-

“Don’ _do_ th’t.” Obi-Wan grumbles, and the prodding hands draw away. Something cool touches his lips, drawing a cold trail down his cheek that startles him, before water trickles into his mouth.

Obi-Wan moans at the simple relief, earning a stuttered, watery exhale from the man leaning over him. Fingers lightly glide over his hair, barely ruffling a stinging scalp.

“Glad to have you back, padawan.”

“Wher’d go?” Obi-Wan slurs, trying to open gritty eyes and finding it too much effort. He’d grunt in frustration, but his throat only catches painfully instead of making the intended sound.

“Padawan…” A sigh. “I think we’ll discuss that another time. You’re in quite a state at the moment.”

“Mn.” Obi-Wan agrees. A faint breeze flashes across his skin in a sweeping direction, both relieving and too cool, and he can feel his skin prickle as a result. He can’t even furrow his brows in discontent without a tight pulling of skin, accompanied by a stinging ache. Forget sunburn, he feels like he’s been seared all over like a holiday nerf roast.

“Cold?”

Obi-Wan tries to lick his lips, letting out a disgruntled exhale. ‘ _Parts of me are_.’ He manages, feeling worry and tense frisson seep at the edges of his mind, following the emotions down the bond and back to the source. It saves him some effort in focusing. His mind feels blurry, his senses…

There’s a lot of indistinct noise slipping through his shields, making everything vague and indistinct. He feels unfocused and overextended, feeling like the slightest touch would shatter him and yet power hummed in his bones. He feels raw, inside and out. Exposed and oversensitive.

 _What exactly has he done to himself_?

There’s a metallic click, and a whirring he hadn’t really noticed dies down. The breeze doesn’t come around again.

‘ _Thank you, master_.’ Obi-Wan sighs, wanting to curl in on himself and hide away, wanting to go back to… back to the river, back to that place.

The wet cloth comes back to his lips. Obi-Wan wishes he could just guzzle water, but he knows that taking in smaller, consistent amounts of fluids is a more effective treatment for dehydration than trying to drown himself to satiate his thirst. 

‘ _Sleep, padawan_.’ His master soothes.

‘ _Thirsty. Hurts_.’ It’s all he can think, really, and he’s not sure he means for his master to hear it, but it leaks out anyways.

‘ _I know. It will be alright. Just rest a bit_.’

He makes no promises that Obi-Wan will feel better. He’s cleverer than that.

The padawan is in for a rough few days.

~*~

“Stop that.” Master Ben swats his hand, and Obi-Wan grumbles in frustration, restless and itchy. His skin is peeling and scabbing, made flaky by the application of a soothing aloe. He’d rather just dig his nails in and scrape it all off, but he’s lucky enough to be avoiding an infection as it is. Master Ben and Terena have put no small amount of effort into keeping it that way.

The worst of the muscle aches have subsided, but he still gets dizzy and lightheaded if he stands up too quickly, let alone tries anything more strenuous than walking from one end of their single room abode to the other. The headaches haven’t helped, and since gimmer tea is a diuretic, he’s exceedingly limited on how much of it he can drink – not that Mater Ben and Terena aren’t constantly handing him cups of pallie water and bone broth and bantha milk.

He finds out he even got a real shower, and is a bit miffed he missed it. His master teases him about going to such drastic measures, but Obi-Wan finds the humor to fall flat when he can sense the frantic unease still lingering beneath the older man’s forcibly jovial tone.

Obi-Wan had really scared him.

He’s still working out how to properly apologize for that.

What frustrates him the most, however, is how disarrayed his senses feel, distraction constantly plucking at the edges of his mind, his grasp of the Force discoordinated and clumsy. He’d like to sink into meditation and sort himself out, but his master has forbidden that particular activity until Obi-Wan is a little more recovered from his physical ailments – and his master's nerves a little more settled from the ordeal Obi-Wan had put him through.

But if he can’t meditate, at least he can try and discuss the matter, when the opportunity to do so comes around.

“It was so… confusing, master.” Obi-Wan complains, sitting on the floor in front of the chair his master was sitting in and getting dabbed over with a damp cloth and another application of aloe. They’re alone in the house for now. Terena had been quite energetic this morning, and after making several laps of the house, tidying things that didn’t really need to be tidied and brewing tea that hadn’t really needed to be brewed, as it just ended up in the cooling unit, she’d escaped the house for a walk, before the morning grew too hot. 

Obi-Wan feels like he had grasped something… something significant and exponentially enlightening, and yet actually understanding the experience, putting it into words…. it eludes him.

He tries to explain about the desert that wasn’t, he thinks, a desert. About the empty cup. About the river that wasn’t a river, and the eternity between the two that threatened to undo him.

“You were searching so hard for something beyond yourself that you walked right out of your body, padawan.” His master swabs the back side of his ear with aloe gel, and Obi-Wan twitches, drawing the blanket on his lap a little higher up. It’s too painful and irritating yet to wear his shirts, with the skin of his neck and shoulders peeling and weeping as bad as it was, and he is finding it an ever-shifting battle to be comfortable.

“I didn’t mean to do that.” He mumbles.

“And _yet_ .” His master teases, tugging on his braid. “There are a thousand warnings about expelling our consciousness into the Force for a reason, _verd’ibir_ . You could have gotten _lost_ out there.”

 _Lost_ , Master Ben says. Leaving his body behind, he could have _killed_ himself.

Obi-Wan ducks his head forward, and his master takes the opportunity to gently pat the cloth across a particularly severe heat lesion on his neck. The scrabs crackle and sting, and Obi-Wan tenses.

“If I wasn’t in my body though, how did I get to the river?” The teenager questions, “If the river is… somehow _me_?”

Master Ben hums thoughtfully, and Obi-Wan waits patiently for him to think it over. It’s difficult enough just trying to comprehend, to think about – he’s not about to rush trying to get a coherent explanation.

He really, really hopes Master Ben can give him a somewhat coherent explanation. He wants to understand. He wants to learn.

“You’re caught up, I think, in the matter of midichlorians.” His master starts, after several minutes quietly working over Obi-Wan’s skin.

“Midichlorians connect us to the Force.” Obi-Wan nods, following the apparent non-sequitur with a logical leap. “And they reside in my body.”

“Midichlorians _do not_ connect you to the Force. They are simply an _indication_ _of_ your connection to the Force. Take them out of consideration for a moment.”

“Okay.” Obi-Wan nods, shifting around to face his master, who gestures for him to offer up his sunburned hands as well, even though Obi-Wan could very well take care of them himself. If he stopped scratching at them so terribly. The back of his hands and wrists are quite raw, and the admonishing look he gets from his master when he presents them is therefore probably well deserved.

“You have, in this instance, three separate concepts to consider; your body, your consciousness, and your connection to the Force. All three together make up who and what you are; however, while these are interconnected, they are _not_ utterly inseparable.” His master explains, parsing it out so much more succinctly than Obi-Wan could have, trying to untangle the theoretical process. “What I assume to have occurred, is that you separated your consciousness from your body; while in that state, you then appear to have finally discovered how to connect yourself not to the Force as it flows around you, but to the Force as it exists within you.” His master squeezes the hand he’s currently working over, looking him in the eyes as he continues. “Like master like padawan, it seems.” He adds in a mutter.

Obi-Wan coughs at that and gives him a look. Master Ben shakes his head.

“You surrendered your consciousness to your connection with the Force. Luckily, that connection was still tied to your body as well. Had you gone any deeper, padawan, and I might not have been able to call you back.” He holds Obi-Wan gaze a moment more, and then lowers it back to his work.

The padawan swallows. _It was dangerous and foolish and I was playing with forces I don’t understand. I know_ , he thinks. _I know._

“So I was connecting internally instead of externally?” He inquires.

“No.”

“But you just-“

“Padawan, what is the very first lesson your crèchemasters ever taught you of the Force?”

“I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.” Obi-Wan says rotely, the mantra as deeply ingrained into his psyche as his own name.

His master smiles.

There’s a leap he’s supposed to make, and he can almost feel the shape of it, but…

He thinks about the empty cup, about the jar of sand.

 _I am one with the Force and the Force is with me_.

Not the Force as it flows around you, but as it exists within you.

 _What’s the difference, exactly_? He wonders, scratching errantly and getting his fingers flicked for it.

An empty cup. A jar of sand -

He’d shattered it once, grains spilling across the floor. _It’s like a little desert. See?_ Anakin had prompted him to lie on the floor, and the shift in perspective had transformed a mere handful of ounces to a landscape of their own.

He can sense the answer just out of reach, and chews on his already ragged lip. “But why is it so different? My perception of the Force when I am reaching out compared to reaching in?”

“Have you considered, Obi-Wan, that it isn’t your perception of the Force that is the thing being changed?” His master prompts, glancing up at him from gently swiping off one particularly patchy spot of skin that Obi-Wan has been peeling pieces off of all morning. His tone is pressing and thoughtful, the tone that says _this is a test_ , that says _think carefully now, padawan,_ that says _I know you can figure this out_.

Unfortunately, his tangling thoughts are interrupted when Terena re-enters the house, a healthy flush on her face for her activity. “The Jawas are coming.” She informs them, unwinding a scarf from around her lekku.

Master Ben lets out a disgruntled puff of air and mutters under his breath.

Obi-Wan can’t help but grin. “They’re not _so_ bad, _baji’buir._ ”

He earns himself a blue-grey glower, made all the sharper by the darker tan of his master’s face. “You have _got to stop feeding them,_ Obi-Wan.”

“It keeps them from stealing, since you won’t trade with them.” Obi-Wan protests laughingly, pulling himself up to his feet with a lurch of effort. His vision only greys out a little, and Terena seems to materialize the cup of pallie water she presses into his hand, because he hadn’t even realized she’d crossed to the kitchen. There’s a careful balance to be minded, to get him hydrated but not to _overhydrate_ him out of nervousness. Overhydration could be just as dangerous as its opposite.

“I have no _need_ to trade with them.” The older man huffs, pushing to his feet himself with an ease that pleases Obi-Wan to see. A few more months and it should be all but unnoticeable that his master has had a limb replaced.

“I think they’d be happy if you at least pretended to be interested.” Obi-Wan remarks, crossing his arms, wincing at the twinge across his raw skin as he does and loosening them again.

“Then they’ll only be _more_ encouraged to come around.” Master Ben argues, and Terena laughs quietly behind a delicate hand.

“ _Someone_ must deal with them.” Terena says sweetly, in her beautiful voice, still radiating energy.

“Would you like to?” Master Ben offers.

Terena blinks her red eyes at him, lekku wriggling slightly. “Mister Naasade, how could I? I am not even here.” She remarks primly, and settles herself in the chair Master Ben vacated.

Master Ben sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Obi-Wan….” He mutters long sufferingly, flanked on both sides, “Get your cheese.”


	25. Chapter 25

Obi-Wan hisses through his teeth when the stretch pulls at the still healing skin of his neck.

“Be gentle with yourself.” Terena murmurs, amusement coloring the soothing tones of her voice. Obi-Wan would love to hear her sing, sure that it would be mesmerizing, but he’s not certain it would be appropriate to ask. Singing is what her enslavers make her do.

Thus far, they’ve neatly avoided the topic of her enslavement, of her eventual return to it. Obi-Wan has done a cursory examination, getting a feel for the placement and danger of the implant as he was monitoring the baby. It was placed in her chest when she was very young – possibly along her ribcage, but it’s moved as she’s grown, muscles and bone fusing around it, far too close to her heart for comfort. Her chest would have to be opened up, and Obi-Wan is a competent medic, but he’s no surgeon, Force Healing and Dathomiri Magick regardless. Life is not a thing he can simply play with.

Obi-Wan huffs through a smile. “These are your stretches.  _ You _ be gentle with me.”

A smile curls her mouth, and Obi-Wan lowers her arms to offer her his hands, together the both of them lowering into an awkward squat. Master Ben comes in with the morning’s water collection from the vaporators and offers them a dubiously concerned glance. Obi-Wan rolls his eyes halfway and starts to pull up, giving Terena a bit of leverage to do so herself.

She draws back up, gives a full body shudder, and her grip clenches bruisingly around his hands as she gasps lightly.

“Terena?”

She bows her head, lekku tensed and eyes closed tight, lips pressed firm, and takes a long, hard breath. “I believe that was a contraction.” She informs him, when she finally blows out air, releasing him from her bruising grip to lay her hands over her stomach.

“Oh.” Obi-Wan replies.

“ _ Oh _ .” He repeats. “Do you want to lie down?”

She gives him a kind, chiding look and shakes her head. “My baby isn’t going to come  _ this instant _ , Obi-Wan, and I’d rather not have it while lying down at all.”

Obi-Wan had vaguely recognized that he would be performing as a midwife when they agreed to take Terena in, but in addition to avoiding the topic of her enslavement, they’ve been avoiding the topic of her separation from her child.

They haven’t discussed her birthing plan.

“I’m sorry.” He blurts out, for all of it – for his lapse, for having to give her child up, for slavery in general.

She glares at him sharply, red eyes blazing before she looks quickly away, takes a deep breath – she seems to have caught the entirety of his meaning and has  _ no _ patience for it – and then she sighs. She keeps a hard look on the wall, but her tone is simply… resigned, when she replies. “You are doing what you can.”

Obi-Wan swallows.

What he can, yes. But not everything he  _ could _ do. That the  _ Jedi Order _ could do.

She blinks and looks back at him and softens. Most people look at Obi-Wan and see a Jedi before everything else. Terena - like Shmi, he thinks - looks at him and sees a boy. Intelligent, educated, strong, powerful – but a boy.

“You hold no fault in this, Obi-Wan Kenobi.” She says gently. “I am angry. I am not angry  _ with you _ .”

“It’s alright if you want to be.” Obi-Wan says. “I understand.”

“For having better fortune?” Terena shakes her head. “No. I refuse to be cruel to those undeserving of my cruelty.”

“Does anyone really deserve cruelty?” Obi-Wan replies, a reflexive query ingrained by his Jedi teachings.

“Cruelty deserves cruelty.” Terena answers him, something soft around her eyes that makes him feel embarrassed of how terribly naïve he must seem to her. She touches his cheek and offers him a wistfully sad smile. “In a better galaxy, perhaps I would have a different answer for you. This is not a better galaxy.”

“I understand.” Obi-Wan nods.

“Miss Sandsea.” Master Ben calls softly, glancing between the two of them and lifting a tray of covered bowls. “I think perhaps it would be best if you ate something now. You’re going to need your strength.”

“Thank you.” She tips her head at the older man and moves to join him, Obi-Wan following. Both Jedi insist she take the chair.

~*~

“Do you know what to expect?” Obi-Wan questions, once their meal has settled somewhat and Terena has started trying to occupy herself as her contractions slowly increase in both number and intensity. A light sweat is forming on her neck, but her fingers remain steady upon the threads she is weaving. Master Ben had found something to trade the Jawas for after all, just scraps of cloth and thread, but it had made the caravan very happy.

Master Ben is soothing his own nerves by quilting together a baby blanket from various uneven scraps, and Terena is weaving a small ys’rak for the baby, a braided strap of smaller braids to encircle the expected infants lekku; yellow and red threads to match their mothers coloring, adorned with tiny gold glass beads. The ends are to be tied with small snippets of hollow japor, one carved with Leia, The Great Krayt Dragon, and the other awaiting Terena’s decision of a name.

She can’t leave her child with much, but she can leave them with that much, at least.

“I mean, have you been present at births before?” Obi-Wan clarifies.

“This isn’t my first child.” Terena answers quietly, looking at neither of them.

Neither Obi-Wan nor Master Ben can find anything to say to that.  _ I’m sorry _ seems horribly inadequate and unwanted besides.

“Do they live?” Master Ben asks, just as quiet, a moment later.

Terena doesn’t answer for a long few minutes. “She was sold.” She finally says, tone tightly controlled in spite of the sheer anguish she bleeds into the Force, the pain and desperation and burning fury. “I have been given word that she is as well as can be expected.” She does look at Master Ben then, a fierce look, nearly a wild one. “ _ Depur _ will have  _ no more _ of my children, do you understand?” She says, her resolve absolute. “ _ Drukka ba drukka _ .”

“We understand.” Master Ben whispers, licking his lips. His blue-grey gaze is intense, eyes tightening with some sudden, painful recognition. He nods, slowly, and repeats her words. “ _ Drukka ba drukka _ .”

~*~

_ I should have killed Anakin, rather than let Sidious take him _ .

It’s a thought Ben has had before, a hopeless, fruitless one, but one he has never considered in this light before. It was always about the jedi genocide, the younglings, Padmé, about Darth Vader and all his atrocities, about Ben’s own heartbreak and guilt for what he’d done to the boy he’d raised, to the brother he loved. It was always about regret.

_ Drukka ba drukka _ .

_ Freedom or Death _ .

Shmi had taught him the phrase when telling him one of the stories of her people, including in her tales the Amatakkan phrases and words and explanations Beru had once omitted.

_ I should have killed Anakin, rather than let Sidious take him _ .

Ben hadn’t walked away on Mustafar thinking about what Darth Sidious might do. He’d walked away because he  _ could not _ choose between killing Anakin and saving him, because trying to choose had just about broken him, left him standing on the edge of madness, so he - so he hadn’t chosen at all. He’d left the Force to figure it out while he did what he could for Padmé.

Ben has considered, in the past, that killing Anakin would have been a kindness – to the galaxy. That it would have been his duty as a Jedi to kill him.

That it would have been far less cruel than leaving him to burn as he had.

Even glancing recollections of that make his chest tighten and his vision go blurry, make his stomach clench and rebel and his mind want to retreat. Most of the time, he walls it off, blurs it away until the memory is more a story he knows than an experience he lived through.

But he has always been convinced that choice he should have made –

That the choice he should have made –

_ I should have saved him _ .

It’s all he wanted, it is  _ everything _ he ever wanted – to save Anakin Skywalker.

What had happened to Anakin Skywalker is a wound Ben will never heal from. Is a wound he does not believe he  _ deserves _ to heal from.

It is a wretched, damning thing, that he knew in the deepest parts of his heart, the darkest edges of his mind, that he wanted to save Anakin more than he wanted to save the Jedi Order.

And what haunts him most, what haunts him most, is –

_ If I had chosen him over the Order, would he have chosen me over Darth Sidious _ ?

It’s a dangerous, selfish way of thinking, of torturing himself.

_ I should have saved him _ .

_ I should have saved him. _

_ I should have saved him _ .

He thought it, whispered it to himself in the dark, screamed it at the empty dunes.

Staring back at Terena’s red gaze, Ben suddenly finds that he understands perfectly the trial in her heart –  _ Drukka ba drukka _ . It hits him like a blow to the chest, that in a way, killing Anakin that day  _ would _ have been saving him.

Anakin had called Darth Sidious ‘ _ Master’ _ , but it hadn’t been  _ Teacher, Mentor, Guardian _ . It had been  _ Depur _ .

That is the crime Ben perhaps hates himself for the most. It’s what he fears Shmi will hate him for, if he tells her, when he tells her – not Anakin’s Fall, but his  _ enslavement _ .

“ _ Officially he doesn’t exist. He has no rank in the military, no formal position in the Imperial Household _ .” Bail had told him once, when sinister rumors had started spreading about the existence of Darth Vader. “ _ They call him the Emperor’s Mad Dog, and he’s kept on a fairly tight leash _ .”

It won’t happen like that again. Ben refuses to allow fate to take the same turn. If it comes to it, if it must –

_ Drukka ba drukka _ .

Ben will do everything in his power to ensure that Anakin Skywalker lives and dies free. It's what he should have done the first time around.

“We understand.” Ben whispers, licking his lips and swallowing against a dry throat. He nods at Terena, the motion slow with the weight of that understanding. She  _ loves _ her child, and that love is a burning, unforgiving thing, as harsh and brilliant as Tatooine’s suns. She  _ will not _ see them consigned to a lifetime of misery, deprivation, and degradation. “ _ Drukka ba drukka _ .”

It would have been easier, Ben thinks, for her to have terminated the pregnancy early on. However, he cannot pretend to fathom the difficulty of the choices she had to make. To begin with, he has his doubts that this pregnancy was unwanted. Whoever fathered this child, Ben thinks Terena loves them. A sense he gets when she sits still, sometimes, staring out at nothing with her hands curved over her belly and a faint smile, a contentment, suffusing her face. She loves them enough to carry their child, to bring them into the world, proof of their union given life.

And there is something unbroken and defiant, in having her child born and born free, even if she herself is denied freedom.

Another contraction comes, and her whole body tenses. She groans, bowing over for as long as it lasts, breathing tightly through gritted teeth. As it fades she forcibly uncurls her clenched fingers and grips the arm of her chair.

“Help me up.” She pants.

Ben rises and offers his arm, pulling her up and dutifully escorting her to pace through the increasing pains, a familiar activity from Shmi’s pregnancy with Omi. Her nails dig into his arm, no doubt at times leaving divots in his skin, but Ben doesn’t mind the discomfort.

Obi-Wan quietly starts boiling water and filling a small basin, fetching what clean linen he can scrounge, discreetly setting their medical supplies into order within easy reach.

“You know,” Obi-Wan drawls, earning Ben’s attention. “It would be  _ spectacular _ if I could contact Healer Ni Hiella right now.”

Ben feels his brow pinch. At present, they don’t even have the capability to contact Master Ni Hiella. The only comm Ben brought was the binary partner to the one he’d left with Shmi. He hadn’t wanted to be contacted unless  _ absolutely _ necessary. He also hadn’t wanted to end up going  _ looking _ for temptation to leave when he himself grew restless.

However….

“We  _ can _ call Shmi.” He offers.

Obi-Wan lets out a relieved puff of air. “I’ll take what I can get.” He agrees swiftly.


	26. Chapter 26

“ _ You should sing for her _ .”

It takes Ben a moment to register that Shmi is not speaking to Terena. The two have been conversing in Amatakka and Ryl in the narrowing lulls between contractions, and the two men elected to give them as much privacy in conversation to do so, unless directly addressed. There are rituals around childbirth among the Amavikka, prayers to be said and strength to be shared, and it makes Ben more glad that they did call Shmi, since no other of her people could be here.

“ _ Ben _ .” Shmi makes it clear she’s addressing him.

“Beg pardon?” Be repeats, catching the flash of relief on Obi-Wan’s face that Shmi hadn’t been addressing  _ him _ .

“ _ You should sing for her. It should not be long now.” _ Shmi says, lifting a brow at him from the holo-emitter.

Hopefully not long now, Ben thinks. It’s been nearly ten hours already, four of them in hard labor, her water finally having broken. Terena’s fair yellow skin has taken on a pale, clammy hue. Sweat beads across her brow and chest, gathering along the line of her spine and dampening her shirt at the low of her back. Her grip in his is painfully tight, but trembling. She’s exhausted and running out of strength.

But Obi-Wan, after another increasingly less awkward check-up, is reassured that she’s dilated enough that they don’t have to worry about tearing, so long as the baby comes as it ought.

Shmi has enough wisdom to help them if it doesn’t, but even then there would only be so much they could do.

Ben holds tight to Terena’s hand as another low groan escapes her, and she pants, her nails digging in and drawing blood from his skin. He wipes her brow and neck, and sends gentle pulses of strength to her through the Force.

Terena is kneeling on a floor cushion, her elbows braced on the chair in front of her, the hand that isn’t gripping Ben’s gripping the arm of it. The comm sits on the cushion, to make it easy to speak with Shmi. Ben is kneeling beside her but facing the opposite way, where he can hold her hand and also hand to Obi-Wan anything he might need from the supplies neatly splayed out between them. Obi-Wan himself is settled behind Terena, being as calm and patient as he can be and occasionally massaging her back.

“I….” Ben balks at the prospect, but Shmi’s sharp gaze has no give in it, and there is a faint pleading in Terena’s red eyes as she looks at him. She  _ is _ in pain. “Alright, I just….”

What is he supposed to sing?

His voice isn’t what it used to be, which makes many of the tunes he might have memorized as a padawan an aching prospect to attempt, and he’s never done more than murmur the Mando’a war chants he knows – and he doesn’t know any of the Mandalorian ballads for childbirth, though he is aware they exist.

The last time Ben remembers really  _ singing _ ….

He’d wandered away from camp to settle his mind, a pair of his troopers meandering vaguely after him, far enough away for privacy, close enough to keep an eye out for any trouble. It was on another thrice-over war torn world, while they were trying to root out a secret Separatist staging location.

He’d wandered into a half-ruined cathedral, and the way his soft exclamation at the beauty of the surviving glasswork had reverberated back to him had struck a chord, so to speak.

He’d had the words on his mind for days, memorized without intention from a datapad he hadn’t quite meant to look through. It hadn’t been meant for him, but then… if he hadn’t read it, he doesn’t know if  _ anyone _ would have, and that would have been…

A familiar, hollow sort of aching builds up beneath his sternum, threatening to crush his lungs or else burst outward.

_ It hasn’t happened _ , Ben scolds himself. It takes longer, however, to convince the feelings to go away. He swallows.

The melody had been airy and haunting, wistful, nostalgic, and full of pain. It had been a goodbye.

It doesn’t take much effort at all to find it drifting out of memory.

Ben takes a breath.

“ _ Sing me a song of a day that is gone, _

_ Say, know that day, did I? _

_ Glory of age, it faded away _

_ Beyond the stars from sight.” _

The words draw out, lilting, full of yearning. Terena focuses on him, her face tight with pain, with tiredness. Ben clasping both his hands around the one gripping his.

“ _ Friendship and peace, prosperity and ease, _

_ Skies of rain and sun, _

_ All that was good, all that was fair, _

_ All that was then is done _ .”

Terena sucks in a sharp, whimpering breath and gasps, shuddering into another contraction.

“Breathe.” Obi-Wan and Shmi say together.

“ _ Peace had its turn, War took the fore, _

_ The age of heroes did bow; _

_ Glory of youth that glowed in our souls, _

_ Where is that glory now _ ?”

Ben pauses, wetting his lips, and moves a hand to brush up and down her back, catching Obi-Wan’s eye. The padawan nods.

“Terena,” Obi-Wan urges, “I need you to bear down. With this next one, bear down with all your strength, okay?”

She whimpers, biting her lip.

“ _ Ben _ ,  _ sing _ .” Shmi says firmly.

Ben sings.

“ _ Blaster and siege, smoke and grief, _

_ Fighters from star to star; _

_ Ashes and screams, bleeding in dreams, _

_ Does this consume all that we are?” _

Ben closes his eyes, remembering the way the words carried against the ruins of the cathedral, remembering how it felt, to sing this then, nearing the end of the Clone Wars. The way it had felt… better than weeping, better than screaming.

_ “Give me again all that was then, _

_ Give me the light that shone! _

_ Give me the eyes, give me the soul _

_ Give me the youth that is gone _ !”

Terena cries sharply with a flash of pain and turns the cry into a moan in her chest, biting it down to push all her strength where she needed it. Ben shifts position and leans into her, letting her lean into him as she bears down with the contraction. He keeps singing, close to her ear cone, one lek wedged against his cheek as she presses into his shoulder.

“ _ Friendship and peace, prosperity and ease, _

_ Skies of rain and sun, _

_ All that was good, all that was fair, _

_ All that was then is done _ .”

“Crowning.” Obi-Wan breathes out, with a sharp, slightly terrified elation. “Almost there. We’re almost there.”

“ _ Sing me a song of a day that is gone, _

_ Say, know that day, did I? _

_ Glory of age, it faded away _

_ Beyond the stars from sight _ .”

Terena rocks, moaning low and shifting her hips, Obi-Wan murmuring assurances and offering a little assistance with the Force. “That’s it that’s it that’s it-“

She bears down with all her might until she can’t bear it any longer and gasps, sagging against Ben with a sob.

“One more.” Obi-Wan promises, soothing and gentle. “We just have to get past the shoulders, Terena. Just one more good push.”

She takes heavy, gulping breaths, shaking against Ben’s shoulder. The twi’lek doesn’t acknowledge his statement for a long minute, just breathing and staring straight ahead. Then, she gathers herself and nods.

“I promise you can have a bath after this. Actual water, all the way up to your chin if you like.” Ben says encouragingly. She lets out a weak laugh while he discreetly checks her pulse.

The next contraction is a little slower in coming, and the Force around her spikes with anxiety –  _ fear-uncertainty-doubt _ – as it starts. She doesn’t know if she has the strength.

“You can do this, Terena Sandsea.” All three of them say, overlapping each other.

Ben sings the next verse again, while Terena bites down a cry, tears leaking from her eyes, trembling with fatigue, and  _ pushes _ .

There is a wet, squelching sound and Obi-Wan whoops with delight as Terena collapses against the chair, Ben catching her and bracing her carefully. “You did it.” he murmurs softly, “You did it.”

She bubbles out a weak, watery laugh. “You have a lovely singing voice.” She says.

“ _ He does, doesn’t he _ ?” Shmi concurs, “ _ And it was a lovely song _ .”

_ Was it _ ? Ben wonders. He’d always seen it as sad. Sad, angry, and full of yearning. It had reflected the artist who wrote it.

Ben had found it on a datapad he wasn’t meant to read, but someone should have, so he did _._

It had been written by a padawan in the last months of the Clone Wars. A padawan who committed suicide not long after the events of Barriss Offee’s betrayal and Ahsoka Tano’s departure from the Order.

Beyond the painful consequences the entire affair had had on those close to the two padawans, what had happened to those two prominent young women had shaken faith throughout the whole Order. And had shaken none so severely as the other war padawans, as their fellow too-young Jedi commanders. Many of whom had looked up to them; to Barriss as a dutiful, well-disciplined Jedi, poised and faithful; to Ahsoka as a bold and clever warrior, compassionate and unbreakable. Ideals they all strived for, that it was easier to believe they could live up to, with these two as living proof.

They could never have imagined what dreadful effects followed in the wake of their actions.

“If you say so.” Ben replies carefully and supports Terena while Obi-Wan cleans up the snuffly infant who is just figuring out how to give coarse, mewling cries.

“Let’s get you up.” Ben offers, moving to help her stand.

“Ah ah,  _ baji’buir _ , no. I haven’t even cut the cord yet and I still have to receive the afterbirth.” Obi-Wan corrects him, sweeping hair back from his brow and leaving a smear of bloody fluid behind that he doesn’t appear to even notice. There’s blood on his hands and blood – among other things – on his shirt. Ben swallows tightly at the sight.

Shmi murmurs quietly to Terena, who is now using the chair as a pillow, sunk against it with all her strength spent, and Obi-Wan carefully ties off and clips the umbilical cord.

Then his padawan is handing him a deftly swaddled newborn, the baby as purple as a Nubian plum, with murky pink eyes, soft little stubs for lekku, and sharp little ears.

“You have a boy, Terena Sandsea.” Ben smiles – what else is there to do?

She jolts towards alertness, half-asleep as she was, and turns sharply just as Obi-Wan makes a disgruntled sound, the afterbirth coming out. She shudders, but then her attention is all for the infant pressed against his chest, Ben turning so she can get the best look at him from this position, at least until Obi-Wan gets her cleaned up and she can be made more comfortable.

The smile that blooms at the sight of her son makes every sorrow and pain seem melt away from face, incandescent jubilation and uncomplicated love pooling into the room. She traces his scrunched up brow with a pale finger, and the soft curve of his cheek. She cries, quietly, helplessly overwhelmed with feeling.

Ben has to blink and shield himself, distance himself from the outpouring. Obi-Wan isn’t quite as quick to make the effort, and starts wiping tears off his flushed cheeks when they trickle down.

He gets Terena cleaned up and the two of them help her rise and move to her pallet, a backrest fixed up so she can lean comfortably back and hold her baby on her chest. He’ll likely need a feeding soon, and Ben leaves Obi-Wan to help her get settled, and to keep an eye on her – she’ll no doubt be asleep in a moment, when even elation can’t keep up with exhaustion. Childbirth was rigorous, dangerous work, and she did well today.

He cleans up the mess left on the floor – including the afterbirth, hastily sealed in a glass jar because they had an easier supply of glassware than anything else. He also collects the com-link, half-forgotten on the chair.

“Still with us?” Ben inquires.

“ _ I am _ .” Shmi replies, “ _ I have to say that was not the call I was expecting to get from you _ .” She adds teasingly.

Ben huffs. “Yes, well. Circumstances.” He offers eloquently. She laughs, shaking her head. “Speaking of – I suppose I didn’t thank you properly for that shirt, Shmi Skywalker.” Ben remarks warningly.

“ _ You thanked me quite well enough, I think _ .” She retorts, too pleased for him to do anything but concede defeat.

“You could have told me.” He grumbles half-heartedly.

“ _ And deprived you of the wisdom and opportunities that came with discovering its meaning for yourself _ ?” Shmi counters.

“Am I your student, Shmi?” Ben inquires dryly.

“ _ You are my dear friend _ .” She answers, neither confirming nor denying the preposition of his question. Ben smiles for her regard and sighs, shaking his head.

“How are you? And the younglings?”

“ _ We are all well, Ben _ .” Shmi assures him, “ _ Anakin got himself bitten by Master Koon’s little togruta companion, Jax is on probation from snowball fights, and Omi is getting quite good at sneaking away from her minders. How are things progressing for you and Obi-Wan _ ?”

Ben glances at his padawan, who is carefully lifting the baby from Terena’s chest and drawing her blanket up. She’s passed out cold.

“We’re getting somewhere.” Ben murmurs softly, and sighs, “I hope.”

There isn’t much more to be said tonight, but Shmi makes Ben promise to let her know when Terena decides on a name.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye.” Obi-Wan huffs indignantly, approaching with the baby who is sleeping just as deeply as his mother, it seems. Being born was probably quite a bit of work too.

“Next time.” Ben supplies in a conciliatory fashion, “You can be the one to let her know what name Terena chooses.”

Obi-Wan brightens at that. Ben gets a good look at him – Hair disheveled, tied back at the elbows, skin slowly shading from red to tan, spattered with freckles, blood still smeared on his brow. He’s got a child swaddled in his arms, and an easy grace to his strong, broadening frame.

He did his work well today too, and Ben couldn’t be more proud.

He tells him so, and gets to watch the boy blush. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: This chapter though! I had the brilliant idea to have Shmi tell Ben to be Singer for Terena, and then realized that that meant _Ben had to sing something._
> 
> Song is adapted from "Sing me a song of a lad that is gone" by Robert Louis Stevenson. If you think it seems a little familiar, the title song for _Outlander_ (2014) is also adapted from this, and that is the melody I was working with.


	27. Chapter 27

“He is so quiet,” Terena murmurs softly, cradling the baby boy to her chest, where his healthily vibrant, purple skin seems to glow against her own soft yellow.

Obi-Wan glances at his master, who only ticks a brow. Of course the baby is quiet. He has two Force-sensitive jedi to soothe every bit of upset and discomfort the moment he starts to cry. They’ve had nothing much more pressing to do than adore him and fuss over him for several days while Terena recovered from the birth.

It doesn’t help that the two of them are trying to come up with a reason to draw out Terena’s stay. They don’t want her to go, for all that they, at present, lack the resources to free her.

“It is not safe,” Terena had argued. “The only reason my master has not set off my implant is because they know I will be found sooner or later. Too long, however, and they may start to doubt that, and set off the transmitter just to be  _ sure _ .”

Obi-Wan had to take a walk to avoid upsetting the baby with his anger and turmoil.

“He knows he’s safe,” Master Ben comments. “And loved.”

Terena hums, sadness pooling in her red eyes as she rocks the infant. A few days after the birth and the baby’s soft skull has resolved into a rounder shape, to Obi-Wan’s great relief, a steady diet of mother's milk and supplemental bantha milk have him quickly putting on weight. Twi’lek children, by nature of their physiology, don’t put on nearly as much fat reserves as human children do, and the infant’s tiny, thin limbs had Obi-Wan quite worried, regardless of Terena’s reassurances.

“Will you hold him?” Terena turns to Master Ben.

“Hm?” He looks at her, having been darning a seam on his sleeve. “Of course.” He sets the needle aside and Terena rises from sitting on the edge of her pallet, moving to place the baby in Master Ben’s arms, swaddled as ever in the colorful quilt-work of his baby blanket.

“Do you need something?” Obi-Wan inquires. “I can-“

“No, thank you.” Terena shakes her head. “I would like to go for a walk. I have decided on his name. It should be given to the desert, and that is something  _ I _ must do.”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth and she wiggles a lek before cutting him off. “I will tell you  _ after _ .” She emphasizes with teasing warmth.

“Oh, alright.” Obi-Wan nods, settling down.

Once the door closes in her wake, Obi-Wan and his master share a burdened blue-grey look. If she has decided on his name, then she will be leaving soon.

“Maybe we could buy her freedom.” Obi-Wan urges.

Master Ben’s expression pinches tightly, and he looks away with a grimacing sort of displeasure. “Padawan… there are reasons I am glad you are ignorant in some matters, but I fear you do not understand how much a slave such as her is worth. Furthermore, even if we had the funds, which we do not, Terena would put securing her daughter's freedom above her own.”

“I  _ hate _ slavery,” Obi-Wan says vehemently, even knowing that a jedi should not carry hatred at all. And the jedi in him does shy from it. But the Mandalorian does not. “I hate it.”

“As you should.” Master Ben replies, which isn’t very jedi of him at all, but then, Master Ben is Mandalorian too.

“Is there really nothing we can do?”

“Peace,  _ verd’ibir _ .” Master Ben offers him a level look, glinting like steel. “There is nothing we can do  _ now _ . That does not mean there is nothing that can be done in the future.”

Obi-Wan grits his teeth nonetheless, trying to accept that equanimity.

“Besides,” Master Ben continues. “I think Shmi would not forgive you for setting off a slave revolution without her. She intends to  _ be here _ , when it is time, padawan. The damage we could do to those we are trying to help by being rash now is not worth the risk such hasty actions would pose to greater victory later. Now is not the time to expose ourselves. Or others. We have been entrusted by those far more involved with a single, simple task. It is our duty to carry it out.”

“I don’t want to send her back.” Obi-Wan sighs, feeling hemmed in and useless.

“Neither do I.” Master Ben says simply.

Obi-Wan clenches and unclenches his hand. The bones ache a little, pain roused by yesterday's sandstorm, but not as much as they used to. Essja had done a good job putting them back together the second time around. He blows out a breath, wisdom coming to him from the one source most relevant – Shmi. “There is no want. There is no need,” he recites. “There is only what  _ must _ be.”

The baby fusses.

~*~

She names him Kereth Sandsea, for the Trickster, the Sky-Walker. A name that will tell him who his people are. A name, she hopes, that will give him strength.

She sings for him, on the night she has decided will be her last on the free edge of the Dune Sea. She sings for him, knowing it is unlikely that the infant will even remember her, but willing some echo of her love for him to stay. Willing him to  _ know _ she loves him.

Obi-Wan sits quietly, enraptured.

Ben retreats, memories of Padme too bright behind his eyes, too many parallels to his past stirred up in his present. He goes out of the house and walks up the ridge under a darkening sky, the evening a wash of bleeding purples.

Obi-Wan finds him there hours later, long after the suns have set and the night has grown cold, laying on his back in the dust and clinging desperately to how much light there still is in the galaxy turning above him.

The padawan sighs, but doesn’t say anything.

Eventually, Ben picks himself up, and his padawan walks him back down the ridge.

~*~

“Do we care that he isn’t Force-Sensitive?” Obi-Wan makes his master take a walk with him early the next morning after too-little sleep for the both of them. “We could keep him – take him back to the Temple.”

“At his age, padawan, yes, we care.”

“But  _ why _ ?”

“Obi-Wan,” Master Ben frowns at him, sorry and aggrieved. He understands his padawan’s desire in this matter, but the reality… “Force-Sensitive children are often ostracized because they are capable of that which their peers and their communities simply don’t understand. It should not be difficult for you to imagine what it would be like to grow up in the inverse – to be incapable of that which makes all your fellow age-mates extraordinary. The Temple may be a different place now than it was when you grew up, but it is not  _ that _ different, padawan mine.”

Obi-Wan swallows. He knows his master is right, as much as he doesn’t want to accept it. Obi-Wan did struggle with inadequacy and bullying as a youngling for simply being a bit below average among his creche clan. Below average, a far cry above incapable.

“Obi-Wan, trust the Whitesuns,” Master Ben says softly. “Trust that the people here know far better than we ever could of how to handle these situations. They have been living this way and fighting this fight for a very long time. Kereth is going to good people, people who can help him understand his situation and maintain a connection to his heritage as he grows older.”

Obi-Wan blows out a breath and glowers at the rising suns, as if glaring at them hard enough could stop this day from progressing. “I understand, master. I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing to apologize for, padawan.” Master Ben rustles his nerf tail and gives him a light push back towards the house.

Obi-Wan stays with Kereth while Master Ben transports Terena back towards Anchorhead. The quiet in their absence seems too thick and oppressive, especially when his main source of occupation is watching a days-old infant sleep, unaware that his mother is farther and farther from him -

Obi-Wan comms Shmi, listening to the call-pending tone with rising desperation.

Finally, she answers.

“Shmi.” Obi-Wan bursts out, a little too loud. He tenses, but Kereth doesn’t stir, lying flat on his back on a pile of blankets, making bubbly little snoozes as his chest rises and falls.

“ _ Obi-Wan _ .” Shmi returns his greeting, looking a little concerned.

“Master Ben is taking Terena back.” Obi-Wan blurts tersely, to explain his demeanor.

Shmi nods over the holo. “ _ It was to be expected _ ,” she remarks.

“I know. I just – “ he clenches his jaw and sighs out, slumping over the table and running his fingers through his shaggy hair. “I don’t know. It’s wretched.”

“ _ It is _ ,” Shmi agrees. “ _ But for now it is what we must accept _ .”

Obi-Wan stares at her for a long moment, at the resolution and the strength in her sharp gaze. Eventually he looks down and nods, defeated.

“ _ What name did she choose, then _ ?” Shmi inquires.

“Kereth,” Obi-Wan supplies. “His name is Kereth Sandsea, and his mother made sure he was born free.”

Shmi smiles, a strangely humored look.

“What?” Obi-Wan inquires.

“ _ It is an appropriate name _ ,” Shmi tells him, “ _ for the child of one who has tricked depur _ .”

Obi-Wan supposes he can see the humor in it.

“ _ How are you faring _ ?” Shmi asks, searching his face. “ _ You did very well in her delivery _ .”

The praise warms him. “Thank you. I’m doing well enough, I suppose. I’m still prohibited from meditating, but my sunburn is almost gone.”

“Prohibited from meditating?”

“I may… have… erm…” Obi-Wan flushes a little. “Accidentally walked my mind out of my body?”

Shmi stares at him.

“I’m fine,” He points out.

“ _ Obi-Wan Kenobi _ ,” Shmi sighs exasperatedly. “ _ What were you doing _ ?”

“I wanted to find the answer to my sand exercise,” he says simply. “I just went looking in the wrong direction, I guess.”

Though the riddle of why that changed things so much was still circling around in his mind, teasing at greater understanding, the full meaning still whispering away just out of reach. He knows that once he figures it out it will probably seem like the most obvious thing in the galaxy, but profound enlightenment is often like that, he supposes.

Still, he has other concerns weighing on him too; concerns about the lightsaber form he has to develop, concerns about the essay he’s overdue on. Mostly, however, concerns about his master, about why they had to come all the way out to the edge of the galaxy to have a conversation they keep not having, and concerns about what Obi-Wan did to himself when he stepped out of his body, what the after-effects really are, because he feels… strange.

To be honest, a little bit mad sometimes.

His shields must be a wreck – which isn’t all that surprising, considering - because things seem to keep slipping through the edges of his mind; whispers, flashes. Sometimes streading his thoughts and dreams and other times… as if they’re in the room with him, or out on the sands, trying to reach him through the walls. He’s more attuned to the Unifying Force than anything else, but these aren’t like his usual feelings or symbolic premonitions. To be honest, they are… unsettling.

But he can’t reorder his mind as it connects to the Force without meditating properly, and he’s forbidden to do that without his master's approval and, very likely, his supervision.

“ _ I am glad you found your way back _ ,” Shmi remarks, after a long moment. “ _ Do not do that again _ .”

“I wasn’t planning on it.” Obi-Wan grins sheepishly. “It was a bit of a disconcerting experience all the way around, to be honest.”

She looks up briefly, and there is comm-crackle that Obi-Wan thinks was a muttered prayer.

“Shmi,” Obi-Wan protests. He’s not  _ that _ trying, surely?

“ _ And how is Ben doing _ ?” Shmi inquires, ignoring him.

“How did he tell you he was doing?” Obi-Wan counters.

“ _ Obi-Wan Kenobi _ .”

“Shmi Skywalker.”

“He’s coping.” Obi-Wan eventually confesses. “He’s adapting to the artificial leg well enough, but his nightmares are getting worse, and he’s lost weight I know isn’t just from our change in diet.”

Obi-Wan, if anything, feels that he himself has gained weight – or at least muscle mass. Nutrient dense rations coupled with high-protein sustenance and a significant amount of physical training. But his master’s appetite, in comparison, has been… lackluster.

“I know he wants to talk to me, to tell me things he – he’s been scared to tell me. He’s so scared of it, Shmi, and I just don’t understand,” in truth, it made Obi-Wan scared too. “Should I just force the issue?” he wonders.

Shmi gives him a sympathetic look. “ _ Obi-Wan, how well does Ben deal with a lack of control? _ ”

The padawan grimaces sharply. “Not well.”

“ _ Not well _ ,” Shmi repeats. “ _ So, should you force the issue _ ?”

He groans, dropping his head down. “No,” he mutters.

“ _ Give him gentle hints, _ ” Shmi suggests, " _ and time _ ."

“We’ve got plenty of that,” he grumbles. His lightsaber form is still more an idea than an actual concept, and they aren’t going anywhere, on his master’s say so, until it was something he could present to the Temple.

Kereth suddenly sneezes, and immediately after starts crying. Obi-Wan jumps up and goes to scoop the baby into his arm with a soothing brush of the Force and some meaningless soft croons.

“ _ I’ll have to leave you to it, Obi-Wan. I have a meeting to attend and then a lecture to oversee, _ ” Shmi sighs. “ _ May I see him before I go? _ ”

Obi-Wan moves back over to the table, where he’s left the comm, and adjusts Kereth, snotty wet face and all, so Shmi can coo over him.

“ _ He’s lovely _ .”

“He is,” Obi-Wan agrees easily, feeling that Kereth is going to need his nappie changed too. “Do you have any messages for me?” Obi-Wan adds.

Shmi gives him a shrewd look, and Obi-Wan grins with his best level of charm.

Master Ben was quite firm about  _ no contact _ .

“ _ Nothing urgent _ ,” Shmi replies. “ _ Though Sian has sent you several updates about the holonovel she’s published, and her progress on the sequel. _ ”

Obi-Wan groans. 

“ _ Though _ …” Shmi pauses, a slight hesitation. “ _ Someone has tried to call Ben quite frequently. They receive the automated replies, but they keep calling. They never leave messages, so I am unsure if it is urgent _ .”

“An unknown ident?” Obi-Wan frowns.

“ _ It has a tag but it is… Dar-ick Sur-hayla Shaaber _ ?”

The Amavikkan Jedi’s comprehension of written Mando’a is mostly limited to technical terms – the result of working on the  _ Lighthawk’s _ systems. Her verbal comprehension is better, but not entirely comprehensive. Her pronunciation leaves much to be desired. It takes Obi-Wan a minute.

“ _ Daryc’surhaai’la shabuir _ ?” Obi-Wan guesses, grinning.

“ _ I do not know _ …” she says uncertainly.

“Brown-eyed bastard,” Obi-Wan supplies, bouncing Kereth, who is making confused half-wails, unsure if he should be upset or not. “That must be the  _ Mand’alor _ .”

Shmi’s brow pinches. “ _ That is irreverent. Is he not king _ ?”

“He’d probably find it funny,” Obi-Wan replies with ease. “Has he called me?”

“ _ That depends on how his ident is labelled in your comm _ ,” Shmi replies dryly.

“Any of them ending in ‘ _ Alor _ ,” Obi-Wan supplies. He has several different comm-lines from Fett.

“ _ No _ ,” Shmi answers, after a moment to check.

Obi-Wan shrugs. “Then I suppose it can’t be that urgent. I’ll tell Master Ben that his  _ vod _ misses him, though.”

“ _ Do you think that will get you off Tatooine sooner _ ?” Shmi inquires wryly.

Obi-Wan lifts a brow. “It  _ might _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: original AN edited out, so comments might be a little confusing. It concerned setting up a platform for original works, but I dont want to step on Ao3's solicitation policy on accident.


	28. Chapter 28

Obi-Wan digs his fingers into the jar and draws his hand out, watching sand spill through his fingers, onto the ground and into the wind.

It’s indiscernible.

The sand from the jar and the sand of the desert. The only difference is the container. Well, and the slight glimmer of the Force where he has interacted with the grains.

Though, he supposes, from a certain point of view that’s not even true. The glass jar is, in a way, simply more sand. Just existing in a different state.

He drums his fingers on the glass. The desert is the desert, isn’t it? Does being inside or outside the jar change that? Is it no longer a desert for being contained?

He thinks of a shatter of glass, and two bright, sky-blue eyes, and a simple change in perspective.

 _I see the sand in the jar as something other than the desert_ , Obi-Wan thinks. _But does that really make it so_?

“Obi-Wan?” his master strides around the corner of the house, Kereth in a sling across his chest, toolkit in one hand. One of the vaporators had been having a malfunction, and he’d spent the morning going over all of them. “What are you doing?”

“Just thinking,” Obi-Wan swears, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

Master Ben senses his sass, and his grey-blue eyes narrow. “Be careful,” he calls.

“Of my own thoughts?” Obi-Wan retorts, aggravated by the fussing. He’s not an idiot. He’s not a _youngling_. He tested his boundaries and suffered the consequences, he knew better than to push himself too hard too soon after. Besides, he’d given Master Ben his word he wasn’t going to go diving back into the Force without him, hadn't he? Wasn’t that _enough_?

“Especially of those,” his master snipes out, just as peevishly.

Obi-Wan grinds his jaw and pushes to his feet, dumping his jar out and making his way back towards the house – around the opposite side from his master.

“Obi- _Wan_ ,” his master calls after him, and Obi-Wan ignores it.

The baby starts to cry.

That draws the padawan up short, just around the corner, guilt dampening the anger and irritability. He’s frustrated. He knows he’s frustrated, and frankly, he has good reason to be, but it isn’t fair to be taking it out on Master Ben, particularly when his mood can so severely affect the bright, unshielded mind in their midst. Obi-Wan can’t help broadcasting at the moment.

He sighs, rubbing at the tension in his jaw – still getting used to the soft, bristly feeling of fine, uneven stubble meeting his fingertips - and walks back around the house. “I apologize, master. I just… I _need_ to settle my mind.”

“I know,” Master Ben remarks sympathetically. “You’ve been very patient so far, Obi-Wan, and it had been a credit to you, I assure you,” he pats the baby on the back; coarse, mewling cries tapering down to something more questioning than truly upset. “If this one settles well, perhaps we could try easing into it this afternoon?”

Obi-Wan smiles in relief. “Thank you, _baji’buir_.”

Master Ben smiles softly at him, shaking his head when the padawan ducks in for a brief hug – and then immediately pulls back. He’s not at all scared of squishing the baby, who seems to prefer being held quite snugly, but Master Ben is sweaty and radiating heat and Obi-Wan is no spring breeze either. The days feel like they’re getting hotter, the nights less cool.

And, unfortunately, succumbing to heat exhaustion makes him _more_ vulnerable to it, not less.

“Any milk today?” Master Ben inquires, as that had been Obi-Wan’s task for the morning.

“A little less than half a gallon. I think our Tusken friends may have milked the same cow recently.” Obi-Wan informs him. The herd meandered up and down the bottom end of the ridge. Ben and Obi-Wan’s hovel was closer to their best source of water, but there was better grazing several kilometers down, closer to the lands the Tuskens were currently occupying. Like the Tuskens, the Jedi were careful not to take so much that the bantha calves ended up deprived.

“Well, perhaps we’ll be more fortunate next time,” Master Ben says simply. It was a careful thing to mediate, the balance between milk and water consumption. They were doing alright so far, but it wouldn’t serve to get complacent. The dry season was ahead of them yet.

They make their way inside, Obi-Wan taking Kereth so Master Ben could get himself cleaned up, rocking the baby against his shoulder to soothe the last of his whimpers.

When the tiny little twi’lek starts yawning, hands stretching and then curling softly, Obi-Wan sis down and lays Kereth in his lap, cradled on his thighs. The baby blinks softly and stares up at him, and there is something about that look that Obi-Wan is simply enraptured by.

Soft pink eyes slide half-closed and startle open a few times, continuing that wide, innocent stare that Obi-Wan can’t look away from. The padawan gently brushes a fingertip down the edge of Kereth’s velvet-soft cheek, across the back of his hand. When he wasn’t crying, or spitting up, or soiling his nappies, or screaming for no discernable reason except to scream, there was something altogether mesmerizing about the infant.

It had been like that with Omi too, but Obi-Wan, at the time, had half-attributed that to the gentle, raw newness of an infant Force-Sensitive.

The Force flows through Kereth as it does all living things, but it doesn’t have that same radiating presence, that same depth, as a Force-Sensitive has.

So whatever it is that he finds so fascinating, so pacifying, it must be something else.

Slowly, slowly, Kereth loses the battle with sleep, his eyes finally sliding shut and staying shut.

~*~

Master Ben finally emerges from the ‘fresher, free of grease and his coating of sweat and dust. He also appears to have taken the time to trim his hair and beard, though the latter is a little shorter than usual, his master running a disgruntled hand across it.

Obi-Wan rubs at his own burgeoning stubble, thinking he might take the time for a clean shave later. He doesn’t think he likes the facial hair.

Obi-Wan offers the older man a cool cup of tea and Master Ben takes it with a nod of gratitude, stepping over to observe the sleeping baby for a moment with much the same soft content Obi-Wan himself felt. They’ll only have him for another week or so before they go see if its safe enough to pass the baby on to those who are meant to be taking him in. Obi-Wan is still wrestling with his desire to take the boy back to the jedi.

The padawan watches his master for a moment, as the man reaches down into the nest of blankets and traces a featherlight touch over one fragile brow and down one tiny, thin little arm.

The look on his face is one of sad memory, and it makes Obi-Wan hold his breath until it passes.

Master Ben himself breathes in, takes a step back, and then turns to his padawan, the looks smoothed away as he comes as settles himself across from the teenager.

“You should have been a crechemaster,” Obi-Wan says, the thought coming out of nowhere, but bringing a smile to his face.

One that grows bigger, at the baffled, startled look the older man favors him with. “Beg pardon?”

“I think you would have been happier,” these words, too, come out almost unbidden. “You always seem so at peace in the creche.”

His master huffs, blue-grey eyes gleaming strangely. “Maybe when I’m too old for all of this, that’s what I’ll do. Healer Kala has been encouraging me to… think ahead.”

“Do you not?” Obi-Wan inquires curiously. All his master seemed to do was think ahead, in his opinion.

“Only to a certain point,” Master Ben confesses. “As a means to an end. She says I’m not very… optimistic.”

Obi-Wan stares back at those sharp blue-grey eyes, made stark in his sun-darkened face, and decides he wants to meditate before he even attempts to unpack those kinds of issues.

“Well,” he says carefully. “Now you have something to tell her. You want to retire from the field and hold babies.”

That earns him an involuntary quirk of a smile from the older man, so he decided he’d handled it well. “I suppose so, but quite enough of that. Are you settled?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Obi-Wan says vehemently, breath rushing on the word.

“Alright, don’t go diving in-“

“I _won’t_.”

“ _Verd’ibir_ ,” his master chides. “Mind me. Don’t go diving in. Extending yourself in the Force like that is like wrenching open a hatch. It doesn’t always close back up quite right, and it can often be reopened with quite a bit less effort than you realize. Don’t get yourself sucked into it, alright? Proceed on the side of caution.”

“Yes, master.” Obi-Wan murmurs contritely, breathing in slow and breathing out.

Breathing in slow.

And breathing out.

He settles himself into his breathing, into his muscles and bones, into his heartbeat, letting his thoughts trail off, slow down, and grow quiet as his focus is brought inwards.

An itch works up the back of his shoulder. He tends to it and settles again, matching his inhales up with his master. His long, measured exhales.

His body settles, and he reaches a state of placidity in the practiced rhythm.

All that focus carried inwards, into the shelter of his being, he lets expand, into the way the Force radiates off his skin like mist, and beyond that, beyond the slight gravitational pull of his own being and into the room-

The room lights up, penetrating flashes of the Force accompanied by intense hyper-focus, jumping from one source to the next – his master, their tucked away lightsabers, Kereth, an object among his masters things, the garden in the cellar, a sand adder wedged in a crack in the foundations, the deep desert, _calling_ to him-

“Pull back in, Obi-Wan,” his master soothes, drawing his focus, which felt overwhelming, overbright and chaotic in its sharp clarity. “Focus on your breath, on your heartbeat, on _you_.”

Obi-Wan is dizzy, for a moment both inside and outside his skin, like he can see himself, like he’s outside his body again and-

He’s barely even felt that sharp flare of panic before his master’s hands are on his shoulder and the back of his skull, tipping their brows together. “Easy, easy,” he murmurs.

Obi-Wan is gasping, abruptly out of center and self-aware again.

“Let’s work on staying inside your own skin, padawan,” Master Ben sighs, drawing back. “On the alignment of your body to your mind to your connection to the Force. On the tethers that bind them together.”

“Tethers?” he’s never felt like separate parts of him were… tethered to each other. Just that they… weren’t really separate, sort of one aspect of his self melding into another.

“You have a stronger fear of what happened than either of us realized. The instant you thought it might be happening again, you panicked.”

Obi-Wan blinks at him, feeling his throat grow hot with a bit of embarrassment. He glances at the sleeping baby. Master Ben lifts a brow. “I’m keeping our presences contained. Don’t worry about waking him – just don’t go _prodding_ at him.”

Obi-Wan nods. “Thank you, _baji’buir_. I didn’t….” his brow furrows. “I didn’t know it was happening the first time, and I think – I think that’s what worries me the most. The experience was unpleasant, well, it was and it wasn’t, but…. but I didn’t even know what was happening to me. If you hadn’t been there… I could have just vanished. How do you find your way back when you don’t know you’re lost?”

“Even without me, padawan, I’m confident you would have found something to come back to.”

Obi-Wan looks at him insecurely, remembering the river, that absolute, weightless serenity. He isn’t so sure.

Master Ben sighs softly. “Tethers. Build for yourself something to hold on to.”

“Isn’t there quite a big section of philosophy dedicated to letting go?”

His master gives him a disgruntled look for his cheek. “Padawan,” he mutters, aggrieved. “philosophy is not without contradiction. There are no absolutes. Are you prepared to try again or are you more willing to wait now?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “No, master. I’m ready.”

Master Ben passes a searching gaze over him, but ultimately concedes. Obi-Wan has the damnable sense that he was just granted permission to be stubborn and foolhardy at his own risk, and that Master Ben was simply resigned to deal with the mess that followed.

Obi-Wan narrows his eyes. Master Ben gives him a curious, innocent look.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe don't read this one right before trying to sleep?

For the following week they alternate which of them has primary responsibility for Kereth in the morning and evenings, spending the long afternoons slowly resettling Obi-Wan’s internal balance and cohesion, and building his scattered shields back up.

It improves his focus and control greatly.

It doesn’t entirely stop the whispers, sliding around him like voices carried off the dunes, the almost-there glimpses of – of  _ something _ . He spends a lot of time trying to settle his anxieties, trying to accept these occurrences without being constantly on edge. His shields are fine. His connection to the Force…. Well, Master Ben wasn’t far off with his analogy. Obi-Wan had wrenched something open inside himself, and there was no putting it back to the way it was. His connection was broader and deeper than it had been, more illuminating, but more dangerous too.

No wonder the great masters always preach such control, such careful moderation.

Master Ben, at times, seems to blatantly flaunt the rule, with the inventive ways he encouraged younglings to, well, essentially to  _ play _ with the Force, but that’s all it was, really, in hindsight – younglings’ games. Encouraging them to obtain familiarity, ease and dexterity with the power at their command – just a different kind of control, gained on a slightly less restrictive path. One that is enriching, rewarding, but not quite as safe.

With a little more internal equilibrium, and well recovered now from his unfortunate encounter with heat exhaustion, Obi-Wan spends his baby-free evenings down the ridge working himself back into the routine of physical exertion, practicing with his japor stick as opposed to his saber, at least until he gets a more instinctive feel for the sweeping staff-style the Tuskens utilize.

Master Ben wanders out with Kereth to observe from time to time, to offer corrections. Obi-Wan, as much as his heart wrenches at the baby’s impending departure, is eager to be able to spar with the older Jedi once more. Partially because it is more satisfying to work against an actual, adaptable opponent, and partially because it’s due that Master Ben works himself back into fighting fitness on that new leg.

Obi-Wan isn’t the only one who needs to be put through his paces.

~*~

Obi-Wan is the one to venture into town while his Master makes himself – and the baby he’s got swaddled so tightly to his person it looks more like an unfortunate growth than an infant – inconspicuous.

He doesn’t go straight to the Whitesun’s cheese house, meandering through the junk shops for a bit and picking up some new condenser coils for the vaporators before heading that way.

Beru greets him with a beaming smile and doesn’t barter half as hard as she usually does over his usual order.

“That friend of yours that had to move away – how are they getting on?” Obi-Wan broaches the subject, hoping the girl is clever enough to catch on that he’s inquiring, as unobtrusively as he can, about Terena. “Have you heard?”

Beru’s beaming smile falters.

“They had a spot of trouble,” she says, voice a little wooden with choked down anguish and outcry. “Nothing they won’t recover from. Eventually.”

“I see. I hope they’ll recover well.”

Beru works up a watery smile. “You ought to know folk like us can make it through just about anything.”

Obi-Wan nods, swallowing down his own sharp feelings. “Is your grandfather around? I was hoping to get some advice about a concern we had with our banthas.”

“Sure is, be back in a blip.” Beru nods and dashes off. Obi-Wan breathes through the quiet, the Force leeching against his skin, churning like smoke, stubborn heat all tangled in choking darkness.

The Whitesuns return and Obi-Wan pushes his feelings aside for now. Anger and despair will do him no favors in this moment.

They make arrangements in the same casual, vague manner in which Obi-Wan had conversed with Beru.

He only gets to hold Kereth one more time before he’s placed in the arms of the courier who will get him to the traders who will get him off Tatooine and away from the fate his mother and sister suffered. He’s swaddled in the baby blanket Master Ben made for him, all motley, clashing colors and careful, neat stitches. Obi-Wan runs his finger across the braided threads wrapping the infant’s lekku, and the japor charm at the end with his name carved in.

Obi-Wan presses a kiss to Kereth’s brow, drawing up Terena in his mind – her mesmerizing voice, the pale yellow shade of her skin, made remarkable by intricate patterns of gold and henna, the fierce, protective love he’s seen in her red eyes.

He sinks the feeling of her into the Force, and sinks the Force into the gentle touch of lips against the baby’s brow, and hopes it is enough, hopes that if fate should be even crueler, and Kereth and Terena never meet again, that at least Kereth will at least have this; a lingering impression, perhaps even a memory, of his mother, of a slave who made sure her child was born free.

“Goodbye, little one.” Obi-Wan breathes, passing him reluctantly into the arms of the courier.

Master Ben leans over the baby one last time, though the courier is getting antsy to move on, and brushes a thumb across a spit-damp cheek. He glances at Obi-Wan, no doubt feeling what he had done, and offers him a knowing look and a nod of approval.

“Perhaps we’ll meet again.” Master Ben murmurs.

Obi-Wan searches his feelings, searches the Force, but all he gets is the wind seeming to come back around, carrying his master's voice in a circle.  _ Perhaps _ .

~*~

One of their Tusken friends bounces a couple of slugs from their long-rifle off the chassis of the speeder on their way through the canyons and Obi-Wan almost jerks the speeder right into the canyon wall. He rams on the accelerator and gives them a little nudge along with the Force, and the speeder screams the rest of the way out of the canyon.

“I think they’re a bit disgruntled we stopped coming by.” Master Ben remarks, turning close to Obi-Wan’s ear to be heard over the howling whine of the engine boosters.

By the time they make it back to their abode, a heavily charged storm is building across the Dune Sea, lightning snarling from sand to sky. They rush to get the speeder tucked away, needing to get the vaporators down and the generator shut off. Obi-Wan can feel the electric charge humming against his skin, the bright blue-white flashes challenging the suns for intensity.

They’re still working on bringing the third one down when all his hair stands on end.

“ _ Down _ !” Master Ben barks, a harsh command, and Obi-Wan throws himself to the sand.

He can’t tell if it is one strike or four, but lightning crashes against the ridge above their hovel, pulverizing stone and splitting the sky. He can feel it in the ground, taste it, like metal in his mouth, and echoes his master in drawing low channels of energy up and over his form, channels the lightning can follow if it wishes, to prevent it from striking  _ him _ .

His ears are ringing when it stops, and he sucks in a breath, pressing down on his palms to rise up –

It strikes again, in the sand beyond them. Again, above the house. Again. Again.

Obi-Wan clings to the ground, curled up as small as he can make himself, cheek pressed into the grit, breathing dust and ozone.

His master’s hand finds the back of his neck. ‘ _ We have to get inside _ .’

‘ _ You expect me to move _ ?!’

‘ _ I am  _ ordering _ you to _ .’

The air is boiling hot and pressurized, Obi-Wan can see sand glowing molten higher on the ridge, running down crags of stone in lurid bright drops. The hand on the back of his neck squeezes, and Obi-Wan closes his eyes.

‘ _ How _ ?’ the padawan steadies himself on that point of contact, on trust and faith.

‘ _ Separate your body from the world, Obi-Wan. It cannot touch you. It cannot harm you _ .’

‘ _ What if I Shadow-Walk _ ?’ the light is all-consuming and unpredictable, but maybe, maybe –

‘ _ What if you listen to me _ ?’ his master counters. ‘ _ Hold your body impervious to the world _ .’

Obi-Wan bites his tongue. He rather thinks the storm itself might take issue at anything lauding to be untouchable by such a raw and destructive force of nature.

‘ _ You know how to mold the world with your focus. This is no different _ .’

That’s a trick Obi-Wan can make work against knights who can’t master Force Structuring. He can’t out-will a sith-spawning  _ storm _ .

‘ _ It cannot touch you. Let it move around you, let it find a path _ .’ The wind is whipping now, the bulk of the sandstorm sweeping closer and warning of the very real threat of molten glass rain. Obi-Wan can see the flashes even with his hands covering his eyes, can hear nothing for the roaring, feel nothing for the shuddering, crackling waves – nothing but that grip, bruise-tight. ‘ _ You cannot stop it. You do not have to. Stand up _ .’

‘ _ I’m not ready _ !’

‘ _ Stand up _ !’

Obi-Wan pushes to his feet. He can’t breathe – the air is too hot. He can barely stand.

His master draws him in close and Obi-Wan can feel the older Jedi shielding him, feel the currents of gentle power not taming, but entwining with the lashing vengeance of the storm, guiding it away.

They run.

~*~

They make it, dragging entirely too much sand inside with them and collapsing, Master Ben chuckling breathlessly.

Obi-Wan glares at him and earns a pat on the shoulder. “We could have gone to any other planet in the galaxy!”

Master Ben swipes dust and sand off his face, sending it trickling from his beard. “Any other planet in the galaxy would not have tested you so, padawan. I learned more of the Force and of myself in four years on Tatooine than in three decades of life as a Jedi before that.”

“I don’t want to be here for four years!” Obi-Wan snaps out, still fuming with the surge of adrenaline and fear.

“We won’t be,” his master promises succinctly. “Obi-Wan?”

“ _ What _ ?”

“We survived,” his master points out.

As if to prove a point, then the entire house shakes with another thundering rattle. Obi-Wan throws himself down on a floor cushion and slumps over his knees, digging his fingers into his shaggy hair and grumbling bitterly.

Master Ben sucks in a hiss, shifting in discomfort. Obi-Wan glances at him, catching his grimace of pain.

When his arms stop trembling, Obi-Wan pulls himself up and fetches the pitcher of gimer tea from the cooling unit.

It’s a long, awful, restless night, worse than any since the first storm caught them by surprise. Obi-Wan catches snatches of sleep, dreaming incoherently of floodwaters, of the dark jungle of Tavorski -

He wakes from a dream about waking up, about red birds taking flight, to hear his master letting out a low, sharp sound of pain, his body a knot of tension on the pallet next to Obi-Wan’s.

The padawan is glad he’s not dry-heaving again, at least.

“Any other planet in the galaxy.” Obi-Wan mumbles blearily, kicking the last edge of his blanket off his pallet and reaching over. His master twitches at being touched, but sighs into the relief Obi-Wan provides by utilizing a few pain-blocking techniques he’d been given very strict warnings from the healers against using too casually or too often. He’s fairly certain he’s used them on his master more than is recommended already, but he can’t just  _ not _ do something.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t last very long.

The storm outside is quieted down, only a scraping wind left, but the pressure is still heavy over the house. Obi-Wan rubs tiredly at his face, shifting around until his back is just touching his master’s. It’s ghastly hot and the edge between pallets is pressing uncomfortably against his ribcage, but he can’t be bothered with either right now.

He can feel his master breathe in deep, and then sigh. “I’ll tell you,” he says, sounding as tired as Obi-Wan feels, but more than that, sounding worn down. Defeated, maybe. “Tomorrow.”

“Hm?” Obi-Wan is half asleep again already, one arm twisted up under his head, his pillow bunched under his chin.

“Why Tatooine. Why… why a lot of things.”

Obi-Wan sighs softly, twisting his body until the edge of the pallet isn’t digging quite so much into his ribs, leaning more against his master’s frame and sprawling one leg out over his master’s ankle. The artificial limb is slightly cooler than everything else.

“Tomorrow?” he murmurs.

He can hear Master Ben swallow, the pause of breath as he hesitates.

“Tomorrow,” he promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Alright, I finally built a Tumblr. You can find me there as blue-sunshine-mauve-morning.


	30. Chapter 30

Obi-Wan wakes much too early, and wakes with a clear alertness that suggests that attempting to doze back off would be futile.

His master, on the other hand, is utterly lax and dead to the world, too deep asleep for dreams. Given the day they’d had yesterday, Obi-Wan is relieved to see it. The padawan carefully rolls over and slips off his pallet, keeping his presence as quiet and calm as he can until he’s ready to slip outside.

One of the vaporators they hadn’t managed to lay down is still standing, but the other – the one they’d been in the process of dismantling – has been torn away. Looking at the new sandscape, it’s going to take them a while to find it, if its even still close enough to be found.

Obi-Wan sighs and gets to work standing the other two back up. He’ll give the third a good once-over after the first two are operating again.

He’s halfway through his task before he remembers what his master promised him last night.

His hands still, one bolt half-tightened, and he glances back at the house. He can feel Master Ben still sleeping, sense the subtle pulse of his presence blending into the world around them. The padawan chews on his lip for a moment, blows out a breath, and gets back to work.

He’s got the two vaporators up, fixed the third though it still wasn’t running optimally, and is about to give the generator up for a bad job when his master appears out of the door to the hovel. He can feel the older man watching him for a minute before he finally turns and looks, wiping sweat off his brow, grimacing at the dust-catching slick of the runny slather of japoor butter he’d smeared over his skin.

“I made breakfast,” the older man offers him a sort of entreating smile. Obi-Wan had eaten a spoonful of basil cheese and a handful of dried fruit before he slipped out in the early dark. Considering that was all he’d eaten since yesterday afternoon, he was starving.

“I did my best on the busted vaporator,” Obi-Wan points to the one in question, “ but I think you should probably go back over it. And I think this generator has had it.” He smacks his hydrospanner on it dissatisfactorily and grab his toolkit, lured in by the promise of food.

Master Ben quirks a cinnamon brow. “You can have your jawa friends takes it off our hands. See if they’ll give us something for it.”

“That’ll make them happy,” Obi-Wan says, the corner of his mouth curling up.

He stows his tools first and then slips into the ‘fresher to clean himself up. The reflection on the mirror catches him up a bit. The mirror is cracked all through, spotted and tarnished besides – another few years and he doesn’t think it would have survived, but its still a mirror. Dust exaggerates the creases on his face – even that near-invisible scar now that doesn’t really show save when he smiles. It catches on his lashes and his scruff, a thick red-brown that makes the blue-grey of his eyes shine brighter, the last remnants of green more a suggestion than a presence. Obi-Wan swipes at his face with a cloth, and the dust wipes away, revealing freckles underneath. His hair springs shaggily around is ears, sun-lighted to a sandy ginger-gold, and he pulls the tie on his nerf-tail, letting the longer locks in the back down. The tail is traditional, partially because letting it down is one way to disguise a padawan in the field, but Obi-Wan doesn’t like the way it sits when he wears his helmet. He hadn’t even had one for the longest time.

Jedi like to joke that sometimes padawans take too much after their masters, but there are moments when Obi-Wan does find the resemblance eerie. If he hadn’t known for certain that his master was _not_ his father…

Shaking his head, Obi-Wan finishes scrubbing off , making sure his face and hands are clean before slipping back out to the smell of spices and cooking oil.

“What did you make?” he inquires enthusiastically.

“Vegetables and rice in a light red sauce,” his master remarks, setting a ceramic jug of pallie water on the tiny table that barely fits the both of them.

“Light?” Obi-Wan arches a brow. “I’ll believe it when I taste it.”

Master Ben huffs and seats himself, and Obi-Wan moves to sit counter to him. The steam that wafts up when Master Ben lifts the lid on the little crockery pot _is_ heavenly.

“I’m glad the garden is finally paying off,” Obi-Wan murmurs, spooning himself a portion.

His master did go light on the red sauce, and Obi-Wan makes an appreciative sound. His master smiles, exuding a quiet, relieved satisfaction as he tucks into his own breakfast.

~*~

 _Attempting to bribe my padawan’s feelings with food_ , Ben thinks. _I’ve picked up more habits from my own master than I’d care to admit_.

They eat their breakfast with quiet, simply relish – it’s a more substantial meal than they’ve had in some time in spite of being rather simple fare, and the reprieve from stale rations and snake soup is a welcome one. They scrape their plates clean with rehydrated bread, soaking up the last of the sauce.

Obi-Wan smiles at him, glancing up through the action with silly amusement before he pops the bread in his mouth. Ben shakes his head fondly, finishes clearing his plate, and takes the dishes to the scrubbing unit before rejoining his padawan.

The amusement, the quiet enjoyment, it bleeds out of the air, turning to something still and expectant. Ben runs his fingers over his beard and takes a heavy sigh.

“I’m…. going to tell you a story, Obi-Wan,” he says, having thought about it much. “The beginning may sound familiar. The end may sound… impossible, but I want you to listen. Please. Let me finish and then I’ll… explain.”

“Alright,” Obi-Wan agrees easily, though not without seriousness.

“Alright,” Ben repeats softly, nodding. He takes a sip of pallie water, wishing for something far stronger than it’s il fruity taste. He’d wanted to wait. Till Obi-Wan had accomplished his tasks, till he himself felt more ready.

But Ben believes that they are at the point where Obi-Wan is more than capable of accomplishing his tasks with or without any more of Ben’s management. The padawan is so close to that internal realization, not just an acceptance of a certain way of thinking, but an immersion of it, an understanding far deeper than words can attempt to explain. As to the saber form… it was to be an independent creation anyways. He didn’t really _need_ Ben for it.

And as for being ready…. Ben has to admit to himself that he will never feel ready for this. You’re never really _ready_ to hurt someone you love. And the waiting was wearing on them both.

Yesterday had been… difficult and harrowing in a variety of ways. Giving up Kereth, getting caught in the storm. Difficult highlights of the brutal way of life of Tatooine.

 _I don’t want to be here for four years_ , Obi-Wan had said.

Ben didn’t want him to be.

Ben had looked at his padawan in that moment, stressed and indignant and hurt and thought – _I would have been here for the rest of my life_.

Maybe. Maybe not – till Luke grew up, perhaps. Perhaps longer. Perhaps not that long at all – Tatooine had a way of taking everything you had, and Ben – he wasn’t sure he’d had all that much left.

And he was reminded of that every day here, and it ate at him, and Obi-Wan was helpless to watch, waiting.

Waiting.

It was a kind of torture all its own, for the both of them, and Ben was tired of it. Confessing would hurt, no doubt – himself, his padawan – but at least it would be out there, then. It would be _over_.

“A few months shy of my thirteenth life-day, I was assigned to the AgriCorps station on Bandomeer. I had not been chosen by a Jedi Master, and altercations with my fellow initiates hastened my departure.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes have widened. That story _is_ familiar.

“However, there was a Jedi Master also on board the transport that took me there. The events that followed were… difficult. I became entangled in his mission, at the conclusion of which he – either newly impressed with my character or out of gratitude for my actions – conceded to take me on as his Padawan Learner.”

Ben pauses. Obi-Wan’s lips part, taking in a breath as if to ask any of the questions swimming behind his eyes, but he closes his mouth and holds his peace. Ben nods faintly.

“It was never an easy partnership – it nearly didn’t survive it’s first year.” _I nearly didn’t_ , Ben thinks. “He would… express regret, at times, for taking me on, and about a year into our partnership, I left the Jedi Order. For a time,” Ben swallows. “An assignment took us to a war-torn world. There had been a civil divide for generations, and from that emerged a second sort of civil war – a younger generation wanting to declare peace against an older generation who refused to reconcile. Another Jedi Master was injured there and we were due to depart, to give up our mission so as to see them to safety, and I… I couldn’t. I felt deeply that we should stay and help the young fight for peace. That as Jedi, it was our duty. So my master left me there.”

“Were you even fourteen? They just-“ Obi-Wan blurts out, indignant and infuriated.

“Please,” Ben cuts him off, holding up a hand. He has to tell it to its end, or he won’t finish telling it all, he fears. There is too much to get caught up on. Obi-Wan grinds his jaw mulishly, but holds his peace. “That was my first real taste of war. I spent the next several months fighting side by side with… with _children_. Children who had more hopes and dreams than resources, led by a girl my own age. We nearly won. We nearly won, but she was killed, and our victory fell apart. Till the Jedi came back. My master found what we needed – a message that girl had left behind, one that highlighted just how _wrong_ all of it was. They made a martyr out of her. Peace was established in her memory, and when the Jedi left…. I went with them. Those events… they set me on a path, padawan. They shaped much of the man I eventually became. They familiarized me with war and loss, with heartbreak and the challenges of faith. The years that followed… did not improve much.”

Ben licks his lips and takes another sip of water. He takes a breath.

“We took more missions in warzones and on battlefronts than any other Master-Padawan pair I can recall. It doesn’t surprise me that I grew so good at war, at violence. That it became very much a part of who I am – an experience I have tried to spare you from, as much as I felt I could.”

Ben turns his cup in his hands, fidgeting. There is much more he could say, of those years, so much more, but they are not matters crucial to events that are happening _now_. They are just… events that happened. Experiences. Stories he might tell if Obi-Wan, in the end, is still willing to listen.

“When I was not much older than you are now… events conspired that would shape much of the future. For the Jedi, for the Republic. For myself.”

He breathes in slow, and out.

“We encountered, on one of our missions, a darksider - a Sith Apprentice. We were… taken off guard. Unprepared for the skill of our opponent, for the miasma of the Dark Side surrounding him. My master and I were separated during the fight, and… the Darksider killed him. I could only watch,” Ben swallows tightly, old anger, old helplessness resurfacing. “I defeated it, but I could not save him. We were on poor terms when he died, padawan, and it is a regret I’ve carried for any years. We had a difficult relationship, but it was not _all_ bad. I would have liked for him to have seen me knighted. I would have liked to have known him beyond the confines of being master and apprentice. I would have dearly liked, at times, to be able to go to him for advice, as little as I sometimes appreciated his brand of wisdom.”

“When he died…. he left in my care a child we had taken in – a boy unimaginably powerful in the Force, whose fate was adrift. The Council did not want to accept him. They were afraid. There was a sense of danger around the boy, and in their fear they did not treat him very kindly. Neither did I, while my master was alive to champion for him. Another regret.”

If he had not aired those suspicions, those doubts, if Anakin had not seen them, perhaps… He had not meant to wound the boy, who had, in truth, no fault in the way the events of those days played out, but he fears he had, and it had not helped the rocky start to their relationship.

“I took the boy as my Padawan Learner,” Ben confesses, throat threatening to close. “It had been my master’s dying wish that he be trained, so I went against the counsel of my elders and was determined to train the boy.”

“I would like to say I did my best, but…. in a way, I failed him from the start. I did my best to turn him into a respectable Jedi Knight, to mold him into something the Temple would find acceptable, as opposed… as opposed to trying to raise him to be the best of _himself_. He was a compassionate boy, Obi-Wan. He was kind, and good-hearted. He was also passionate, and brilliant, and bursting with power far beyond my own.”

“He tried his best. He tried so hard, to be what I asked of him, and he found it stifling. The life I led him down wasn’t the life, I think, that he was meant for. He did grow to become a Jedi Knight – a powerful warrior, an excellent pilot, a cunning strategist. But in the end…. in the end, it destroyed him. He could never find balance between his heart and his duty, between his fears and his freedom. The Sith… they were closer to us than we realized. They took advantage of that. Exploited it. His weaknesses. Mine. He was my best friend, Obi-Wan. My brother. I _loved_ him, and they turned us on each other.”

“He Fell. He Fell, and what he did in Falling, what he did….” Ben still chokes on it. On having watched Anakin kneel to Darth Sidious, having watched him slaughter younglings and do harm to Padme. “We had been…. we had been at war. The Jedi. The Republic. A war built on lies and betrayal and the end of it was…. was the end the end of everything I loved. And my padawan was used as a part of that.”

Ben can feel his fingers trembling, feel the layers of his mind threatening to buckle, heartbreak and anguish threatening to shatter all his careful partitions, the whole grand balancing act of his soul, even now. He shudders his way through a breath.

In, and out.

“It destroyed _me_. It’s why I exiled myself to Tatooine. And I –“ his voice cracks. “ - And I still would have forgiven him for it, if he’d just come back to me. I _love him still_ , Obi-Wan. At the height of the conflict….before the end, before it all seemed to go wrong, we had been…. less like two people, and more like two halves of the same whole. He was half of who I was, padawan, and I don’t… I still struggle to live without him. And I am sorry for that.” Ben blows out a breath, harsh and unforgiving.

“I am sorry for that,” he repeats. “And for the fact that everything I have done since the day we met, everything – has been an attempt to change his fate. His role in the fate of the galaxy is…beyond imagining. It was certainly beyond me.”

“I don’t understand.” Obi-Wan wrinkles his brow, the thread of the story losing coherency, the events described refusing to fall into shape, into reason. How could they have happened, how could he not _know_ about it? “Didn’t your first padawan… I thought he was dead?”

“I told myself he was,” Ben whispers, “ for different reasons than I told _you_ that he had died. In a way, it’s the truth, and in a way…. it isn’t. I’m sorry, just… bear with me a moment more. I’ll answer any questions after, just…. just please _believe_ me.”

The furrow stays in Obi-Wan’s brow, tension building in his shoulders, but there is resolve in his blue-grey eyes, bright and clear and determined as he nods slowly.

Ben takes a breath. It’s not as steadying as he’d like. He almost wants to laugh, at how absurd this must seem to the confused young man sitting across from him.

“I wasn’t always Ben Naasade. You’ve guessed that much, haven’t you?” Ben whispers.

Obi-Wan nods again, a quiet affirmation to the fact. Then again, it _was_ in the name, wasn’t it?

“I wasn’t always Ben Naasade.”

 _Breathe_.

“My Jedi Master was Qui-Gon Jinn,” Ben says, voice achingly clear. “My padawan’s name was Anakin Skywalker, and mine…”

“And mine was Obi-Wan Kenobi.”


	31. Chapter 31

Obi-Wan’s mind has been processing reactions and assumptions as fast as his master could speak – faster, at times – but at that-

At that-

_“And mine was Obi-Wan Kenobi.”_

His thoughts vanish. His mind goes quiet and still.

For a _long_ minute, while he looks back at his master, at… at….

Critical thought slowly resurfaces, the premise turning over in his mind in a kaleidoscope of possibilities and preconceived notions.

Obi-Wan _knows_ there were Jedi that have studied Time, that believed it could be traversed. The veracity of the success of such endeavors is not well explored, but that did not mean it was not possible.

So if it was _possible_ … If he assumes it to be….

Obi-Wan blinks, staring at the older jedi who had faded from focus in spite of the padawan looking right at him. He searches his face, those creased, shadowed grey-blue eyes. The lines of stress in his brow and of good humor at the edges of his eyes. The faint smudges of freckles under a slightly ruddy tan – a match for Obi-Wan’s own. That sun-brightened golden-cinnamon hair, turned silver at the temples with a white strand here and there. The curve of his cheek, shadowed by his longer waves of hair, the line of his jaw under thick stubble…

It’s eerily familiar, if he thinks about too much. He’s just used to not thinking about it too much.

_If it’s possible, would I do it?_

_“Everything I have done….”_

Challenging the dogma of the Jedi Order, forcing the exposure of the decline of their people, interceding in the fate of Mandalore, investigating the Sith, freeing Shmi….

They weren’t the stepping stones he would expect, just to save one child, but – but there was something about Anakin, wasn’t there? Something undefinable and immense; the way, at times, that the whole world seemed to pull towards him, and that everything else might follow.

_Would I do it? Alter time, rewrite history, change the course of countless lives, just to save –_

_Just to save Anakin Skywalker_?

Obi-Wan blinks harshly, trying to bridge the potential path between the boy he’d left on Alderaan and the unknown shape of the grown man he might become, _choosing_ Darkness.

He can’t.

But he can sense the edges of the gaps. The Sith. The War. The twilight of the Jedi.

 _Yes_ , he thinks. _I’d do it_.

Obi-Wan stares at the older Jedi, and feels his chest grow tight and hot, his breath choked in his throat. Obi-Wan _loves_ this man. But he also knows that the man across from him is broken in ways he fears can’t be fixed. He is _haunted_ and ill with it. He is a man shaped by violence and heartbreak and loss.

And Obi-Wan has always feared ending up like him.

 _You can’t be my future_. He stares into blue-grey eyes, his own getting blurry, and wishes he at least felt doubt at the truth staring back at him. He wishes it could be refuted, denied, a lie, a trick, a _delusion_.

 _That can’t be my future_.

“Padawan,” the older jedi reaches for him, and Obi-Wan flinches, startled. His counterpart freezes, and Obi-Wan comes to an abrupt realization-

 _It isn’t_.

The man sitting across from him, hiding a flash of hurt as he pulls back, is not his future and never will be, because the things that made Ben Naasade who he was are not the things that have made Obi-Wan Kenobi into himself.

Ben ensured that.

He _spared_ Obi-Wan that.

Obi-Wan takes a breath, and something in his chest loosens. He draws a hand up to cover his mouth unwittingly, and breathes against his palm as realization after realization, a cascade of events altered in reverse rolling through his thoughts, barely coherent.

Obi-Wan lets out a strangled laugh.

“Ben _Kenobi_ ,” he blurts out. “When I offered - that’s why you were so- the name you gave up was _mine_.”

“Ah-“

He barely gives the Jedi Master time to respond. “How’d you do it? Come back?”

Master Ben – _that’s me_ , Obi-Wan thinks, leaning forward and staring intently. It’s such a simple alteration of the facts, isn’t it? Just a name, but… but that small, simple alteration changes everything, doesn’t it? Obi-Wan looks away, trying to quell a sudden irrational sense of betrayal.

Years of trying to build up the trust between himself and his master, of seeking answers about the man, trying to know him better and being left wanting, of accepting the subtle isolation of not knowing a thing about his Lineage, and it was all – it was –

 _He knew everything about me, and I knew nothing about him_.

But what could he have said? Ben Naasade kept one massive secret. If Obi-Wan had known the truth as a youngling, he would have had to have kept a thousand little ones. Was he supposed to explain that Master Jinn was actually his grandmaster? That Master Dooku was his great-grandmaster? That Sian was his sister-padawan? What would it serve, when _they_ didn’t know? Obi-Wan at least got to _know_ them, even if he didn’t know what they were to him – from a certain point of view.

“I didn’t,” the older jedi says quietly. “When I exiled myself to Tatooine, I didn’t fully expect to ever actually leave again. There are… powers far beyond us, padawan. _Entities_ of power far beyond us, and there are things they can do which they do for their own reasons.”

Obi-Wan feels a quiet chill prickle down his spine, a plucking of cautious awareness.

“So you… you didn’t mean to come back at all,” Obi-Wan hadn’t expected that. That it was just… some accident of fate. Well – he eyes the older man – maybe not so much an accident as an ominously bestowed boon.

“No,” Ben replies. “If I had even known it was possible… well, there are stories of jedi who have destroyed themselves attempting such feats. At that time in my life, I don’t think that would have been a deterrent to trying.”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes, fist clenching under the table. “Please don’t talk that way.”

He opens his eyes, pinning his master with a look. “I _love_ you. Your life matters to me, and it _hurts_ that you would consider… that you might consider… just - don’t leave me, alright?”

The faint surprise he senses from Ben inspires a swell of bitterness, and Obi-Wan looks away from him to try and contain it. “You’re not me,” the young man spits out, looking back to glare at the older man, who looks a little taken aback by the declaration. “I can forgive you for things I might not forgive myself for.”

It’s the thinnest veil of distinction, the truth of the matter being what it is, but… but it is Obi-Wan’s truth, it is the point of view he chooses to take, for the sake of his own sanity and self-identity.

Understanding alights in blue-grey eyes, and a wistful smile curls up around his lips. “I understand.”

Obi-Wan snorts, and decides he can’t just – sit there – any longer. He pushes out of his seat and paces, rubbing at his jaw.

There are a thousand questions, a thousand burgeoning problems too, and Obi-Wan doesn’t know where to start with – with any of it.

He sucks in a breath. “Why tell me now?”

Ben Naasade did nothing without a purpose – he learned that long ago.

No, Ben already told him, didn’t he?

_“When I was not much older than you are now… events conspired that would shape much of the future. For the Jedi, for the Republic. For myself.”_

Obi-Wan changes his question, turning about. “What do you want from me?”

Ben looks him in the eye, a look of resolution and hard hopes. “I want you to save Anakin.”

“From _what_?” Obi-Wan demands.

“From himself,” Ben utters. “I can hope to save him from the influences that damaged him, from the Sith, from the strictures of a path chosen for him, but I fear I am not capable of saving him from himself. I couldn’t even save me.”

“From a certain point of view…” Obi-Wan points out dryly, gesturing to himself. Ben gives him a flat, unamused look, leaning forward on his elbows with all seriousness.

He looks down, pensive and troubled, and Obi-Wan settles himself, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall, watching the older man. “When Qui-Gon and I found Anakin, he was older than he is now, and he was burning with power. Utterly untrained, save what Shmi taught him accidentally, and his midichlorian count was astronomical. My master believed that it meant Anakin Skywalker was the Chosen One, a child of the Force itself.”

“But Shmi-“

“Claims Anakin has no father. Whether she meant that literally or otherwise I’d never demean her by asking,” Ben says.

“Of course not,” Obi-Wan murmurs, swallowing tightly.

“It hardly matters,” Ben sighs, moving on. “It was never spread commonly but… but people still believed it. I’m never sure I did, not before… not before the end. People believed it, and expected him to live up to it. Even me, even when I didn’t believe. And he could, you know. He was the best of his generation – perhaps of any generation. Had I managed to instill in him stronger virtues of patience, humility, and restraint, there would never have been a jedi who could claim to have been his equal.”

“But what did it – does it - mean, if he is this… Chosen One?” Obi-Wan questions skeptically.

“The masters used to tell me that the Chosen One would bring balance to the Force. During the war, they thought it meant he might destroy the Sith for good, that his rise as a Jedi would bring a rise to the Light Side of the Force, and eradicate darkness.”

“But if Anakin Fell….”

Ben lets out a weary, slow exhalation. “Darkness prevailed. There were nights after his Fall, padawan, nights so dark I wasn’t sure there was _any_ light left in the galaxy.”

Obi-Wan clenches his jaw and glances away, aching from the echo of remembered despair wafting down the bond between them.

“Obi-Wan,” Ben shakes his head. “I need you to let Anakin to do the one thing he was never properly allowed in my time – I need you to let him figure out his _own_ destiny. I raised him as a Jedi once, and failed him in doing so. I need you to do better. To guide him on a path that may lead beyond the Jedi, beyond any of us, beyond anything we understand. I fear we grow too fond of our own perceived importance. Those powers I spoke of; they care for us very much – and very little. What intentions they might have for him….” The older man sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I don’t know. I just don’t. He has power, and many will want to use it for themselves. The Sith did. The Jedi did, noble as our intentions were. Others will attempt to do the same, mortal and otherwise.” Ben looks up, head hung low and guilt etched in his face. “I failed to protect him. I _can’t_ let it happen again.”

Obi-Wan pushes off the wall and crosses the room, crouching in front of the older jedi and clasping his arm, wrist to elbow, squeezing tight. He looks into those eyes, burning with desperation, and wishes he could ask the man to forgive himself, but –

But Obi-Wan knows himself too well. There are things he can forgive others for, for which he would never forgive himself.

“Then we won’t let it happen.” Obi-Wan swears instead, and his master drops his brow against Obi-Wan’s hair, listing forward in shaky relief.

“It wasn’t his fault.” Ben whispers, almost compulsively.

Obi-Wan brushes his thumb across his masters arm. He doubts that. Oh, he _wants_ to believe it, but he doubts it’s _entirely_ true. Falling was a choice. One that could be made under duress, one that might be a terrible choice among terrible choices; a choice that didn’t seem like any choice at all; it could be gradual, or all at once; made for poor reasons or for good-intentioned ones, but was a _choice_. The circumstances may have been direly intractable – Obi-Wan doesn’t know and doesn’t actually _want_ to know the bitter details – but if Anakin Fell then he played a part in his own Falling.

Obi-Wan thinks of the boy he knows. The boy he _loves_ , all heart and blazing blue eyes; envious brilliance, raw power and a tendency to pout.

 _He must have been desperate_ , Obi-Wan thinks.

Someone as willful, intelligent, and strong as the Jedi Knight Obi-Wan could see Anakin becoming – yes, he must have been desperate.

Obi-Wan doesn’t contradict Ben. It would serve no purpose. Obi-Wan isn’t the one who has to live with _knowing_ whatever it was that Anakin had done.

_“It was the end of everything I loved… It destroyed me.”_

Obi-Wan squeezes his eyes shut and swallows, breathing steady for the both of them.

“I have more questions,” he says simply. “ But not today.”

Ben nods and pulls back, drawing his arm free and clasping Obi-Wan’s fingers briefly.

The rest of the day is quiet, full of hesitancies and respectful distances. Obi-Wan spends most of it tryin to distract himself with coursework.

He fears some of his essays take on a more emotional tone as a result, but he can’t be bothered with correcting it after the fact. He’s never had excellent marks anyways.

That evening he takes a walk. Instead of heading up the ridge he goes down and wanders out on the dunes, where the sand is soft and shifts easily, constantly shaped and reshaped by the wind. He plants himself down and thinks long and deep about another life, about a life with less chances and harder choices and sad endings.

He does then what he suspects Ben Naasade never has – he cries for himself; tears of mourning, tears of _relief_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: thought about sleeping on this one in case I wanted to change anything come the next day, but it is not actually my intention to torture you.


	32. Chapter 32

“You didn’t actually answer my question, you know.”

“Hm?” Ben grumbles tiredly, the question having been blurted out of what had been a resting silence.

“About how you came back. What… what _happened_ ? What was it like? What brought you back? _Why_?”

“Obi-Wan…” Ben sighs. “This couldn’t wait till dawn?”

“As if either of us was actually asleep?” The padawan retorts, which, to be fair…. was not inaccurate.

Ben draws a hand over his face and sighs again. “Has Shmi ever told you about Lukka?” he inquires.

Obi-Wan rolls over on his pallet, bracing himself up on his elbows, appearing in Ben’s reluctant line of sight unfairly awake and brightly contemplative. “Lukka is… a sort of embodiment of justice and reincarnation. Something older and more powerful than the Amavikka and all the gods and spirits that watch over them. In some of the stories Lukka _is_ the sandstorm, and in other stories Lukka is the _cause_ of sandstorms, that they only represent Lukka’s will. Are you saying a Tatooine god brought you back?”

“I am _saying_ ,” Ben grumbles, “that I lost myself in a sandstorm, and that an entity of the cosmic force far beyond mortal comprehension may have used it as an opportunity to shift me in time. Something that we may as well consider to be not dissimilar to what Amavikkan stories call Lukka.”

“That is such a jedi answer to a yes or no question,” Obi-Wan snorts. “But how do you _know_? Did it speak to you? What did it say? What did it _want_? Is it helping us?”

Ben swallows, glances at his padawan, and decides he may as well know.

“It had its own purposes for what it did, Obi-Wan, beyond me, beyond the Jedi, beyond the Sith, and what they are exactly I have no idea. I just know that in its purpose we were given opportunities. What we make of them is up to us. As to how I know… for a very long time, I didn’t. The how, the why, those were questions I consigned myself to not having answers for. That it had happened was enough to be dealing with. Until…” He gives the boy a stern look, “until my padawan, a very stubborn, _foolish_ young man, decided to _step out of his body_ , and gave something else the opportunity to step _in_.”

Even in the dark, Ben can tell his padawan pales.

“What?” The teenager croaks. “But I…”

“You sparked its curiosity. It thought we were…. looking for it.”

“And you didn’t _tell_ me?” Obi-Wan demands.

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I? There was rather a bit much going on already, and very little to be done about it after the fact.”

“But I… it affected me. My connection to the Force, my perceptions have been…. I thought it was just what _I_ did, but if I was _possessed_ …”

“Quit panicking,” Ben remarks mildly.

“I was _possessed_!” Obi-Wan snaps back.

“It was rather polite about possessing you. It left when I asked it to,” Ben points out, quietly admitting that at the time, he himself had been just as panicked and upset as his padawan is now.

“That – that – stop being reasonable about this!”

Ben snorts. They can’t _both_ be overtly upset about it. Obi-Wan is under a lot of stress and Ben is paranoid enough without them constantly feeding into each other’s doubts and fears.

“Obi-Wan, while I have no doubt that hosting an entity such as this has left its mark on you, has left you with lingering effects that you will have to live with, I also took care after the fact to observe you and ensure you were not strictly _harmed_ by the experience. Although,” he gives the padawan a pointed look, “you may have _mentioned_ any unsettling changes to your perception of the Force.”

“I thought it was just because my shields had been wrecked, that it would go away with time and meditation,” Obi-Wan mutters mulishly. “I’ve been handling it.”

“And has it?” Ben inquires. “Gone away?”

“….not really?” his padawan hedges.

Ben lets out an exasperated sound and pinches his brow. Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and then lets out a huffy chuckle. “We deserve each other, don’t we?”

Ben grumbles irritably at him and rolls over, so he doesn’t have to look at the mix of cheeky mischief and ruefulness on the younger man’s face.

Obi-Wan prods at him, a grin evident in his voice. He is at moments either tickled or disturbed by the realization that they are, in a way, the same person, even if they really aren’t, and takes unfair satisfaction in _pestering_ Ben with the fact. “C’mon, admit it!”

Ben will _not_.

“We’ll meditate together this afternoon and explore exactly what’s changed in your perceptions, padawan,” Ben says curtly. “Try and let me sleep, will you?”

Obi-Wan shifts behind him, most certainly not settling back down, and Ben mutters a prayer to the Force. Why does Obi-Wan have to be so terribly tenacious?

It is not fair that the qualities in his padawan he would rather like to complain about are qualities he himself shares, and the very same qualities that tend to make the padawan – well, a good padawan.

“What happened after?” Obi-Wan asks, leaning forward over Ben’s shoulder.

“ _Padawan_ ,” Ben grumbles, aggrieved.

“Did you know what happened when it happened? Or…?”

“No, I didn’t,” Ben sighs. “I walked back to Mos Eisley wondering why everything seemed off, but not knowing why, not until I heard rumors of a visiting Hutt I knew to be dead, and went investigating only to literally trip over Shmi Skywalker. And Anakin. I was half convinced I’d gone mad, but I couldn’t take the chance that I wasn’t, so I… I acted.”

“Is that why Tatooine was so important?” Obi-Wan presses. “ Because this is where it happened?”

“It’s where Anakin was born,” Ben exhales, breathing out the words. “Where I exiled myself to. Where destiny always seems to take root. Great suffering and evil happens here, but great compassion and goodness too. I had to bring you to Tatooine because Tatooine shaped everything that happened. It shaped Shmi Skywalker, it shaped my Anakin, it shaped me, and the fate that befell all of us, at one point or another. I thought… I thought if I brought you here, you could see it. You could understand it better.”

Obi-Wan is quiet, contemplative.

Ben blinks at the wall, waiting for the next query, but it seems he’s given Obi-Wan a lot to consider, a lot to think over. His padawan shifts and settles back down.

“Am I allowed to sleep now?” Ben huffs.

“At least one of us probably should,” Obi-Wan replies.

Ben huffs in exasperation and gives up.

~*~

They spar in the morning after doing their vaporator rounds, with staffs instead of sabers, Ben helping Obi-Wan familiarize himself with that sweeping, fluid style of footwork the Tuskens had cultivated, the circular give and take of balance, force, and momentum.

“Did you develop your own saber form?” Obi-Wan inquires, the thought occurring to him halfway through sunrise.

“I contemplated the idea for a time, out of… purposelessness, if nothing else, but when it started to take shape, I realized I would likely never have anyone to teach it to. The thought was disheartening enough that I discontinued the effort.”

“You were never going to come out of exile?” Obi-Wan lowers his staff, looking sadly at the older man.

Ben looks back at him and swallows tightly. “I wasn’t just…mourning, Obi-Wan. I was hiding. I was… that is, the Jedi were…” Ben stops, plants his staff as something to brace himself against, and lets out a weary breath. “The Jedi Order as you know it was _gone_. Those of us that remained were being hunted by the Sith. So no, Padawan, I was never going to come out of exile.”

Obi-Wan stares at the older Jedi, feeling as if someone has just set a weight on his chest. His fingers slacken around his staff, and then clench tight.

“I’m….” he lets out a breath, his head and emotions swimming fruitlessly. “ I’m gonna take a walk.” He says simply. “I’ll be back by sun-high.”

Ben just nods solemnly, piteously understanding.

~*~

Obi-Wan spends an hour just sitting down at the watering spot with the banthas, gently warding away a calf that keeps trying to chew on his hair. He doesn’t manage meditation, but it’s soothing nonetheless to sit there amid their cohesive, calm presence and let himself…process.

They start to amble away as the shadows grow thin against the underside of the ridge, and Obi-Wan makes a last-minute choice to scale the stone ridge rather than hike his way back around. The sun is hot at his back as he climbs, the stone rough against his fingertips, slick with sand in some places, and dangerous with the occasional sharp peak of lightning-struck glass that cuts into his skin.

The strain of effort, the focus and attention it requires, however, make him feel much clearer-headed by the time he finally climbs over the top.

He’s met by the braying shriek of a Tusken, and grabbed.

He’s got a Tusken latching onto each arm and one hollering in his face, hands gesticulating too sharply for him to read in his passing understanding of their hand-language, but it has the feel of a scolding, and he’s too shocked and bewildered to fight when they start dragging him away from the ledge and towards the rocks.

They meet up with another pair, who shake their weapons at him, _also_ apparently scolding him.

He has no idea why.

Has he offended them somehow?

They don’t feel….malicious. Not angry, per say. More… outraged. Concerned, even.

‘ _Ben_.’ Obi-Wan tugs on their bond, letting himself be more or less carried along. ‘ _Ben, I think I’m being kidnapped by Tuskens_.’

‘ _Why am I not surprised_?’ the Jedi Master replies resignedly.

Obi-Wan huffs, affronted, and makes sure his older counterpart can feel it.

‘ _In so far as I am aware, you and I have the exact same kind of luck_.’

‘ _I know_ ,’ comes the dry return. ‘ _Hence why I am unsurprised_.’

Obi-Wan feels his brows furrows. ‘ _How often, exactly, do_ you _get kidnapped_?’

‘ _I stopped counting years ago_.’

‘ _Great_.’ Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. ‘ _Are you coming to get me_?’

‘ _Are you in a rush_?’ Ben replies. ‘ _I’m filling a barrel so I can barter for you. Hopefully this can be easily resolved_ . _You could attempt escaping_.’

‘ _I don’t want to hurt anyone, and I_ am _a little curious. I think they’re taking me back to their camp._ ’ Obi-Wan sends back. He also doesn’t want to make them angry. Tusken vengeance could be brutal.

‘ _Then why are you rushing me_?’

‘ _Because it seems like the thing to do_.’ Obi-Wan retorts, feet slipping in the sand as he tries to adjust his stride and gets yanked on from both sides for it.

He can sense Ben’s eye-roll.

~*~

Obi-Wan nearly gets mauled by massiffs when the Tuskens drag him into their camp, the armored canines riled up by the fervor going on and, he suspects, by the bloody scrapes on his hands, now throbbing and stinging for his carelessness.

They’re called off by a guttural honk from one of the Tuskens leading their little party into the camp, and Obi-Wan finds himself the center of attention as many more Tuskens rush up, hooping excitedly as they circle him.

‘ _I think they’re….happy to see me_?’ Obi-Wan reports.

Ben’s sardonic humor leeches through to him. ‘ _Well, shouldn’t they be? If this is a kidnapping, they’ve apparently been successful_.’

Obi-Wan gets shoved forward into the center of the circle of people, and he starts getting prodded with staff-ends and curious fingers, tugging at his clothes and apparently doing an inspection of his limbs. Someone grabs his left hand and twists, making harsh _shcree_ sounds and displaying the bloody cuts forcibly to the rest of the circle. Obi-Wan twists in discomfort.

He gets dragged forward again, the group moving with them, and he is forcibly sat down on a smoothed over stone in a loose ring of such stones, surrounding a small firepit with a cooking pot still hung over it, though the flames have gone to ash. His hand is not released, and someone grabs his other as well, barking orders at the gawkers.

He flinches when some sort of dubious jelly starts getting smeared over the cuts. “I don’t think that’s necessary!”

He gets pinched for squirming.

Then whacked on the head, someone else trying to gain his attention. He does a lot of uncertain blinking, trying to translate gestures he barely understands, and the story that is being scrawled into the sand, events he is apparently supposed to recognize, judging by how urgently they are being pointed at.

It isn’t until they start drawing a circle of branching lines that something finally clicks.

“The storm. The lightning storm.” Obi-Wan points, and some of the jabbering quiets. He looks over the pictographs again. He points at the pictograph, and then the sky, and imitates an explosive sound.

They react positively, so he assumes he’s on the right track.

He can’t guess at the next pictograph back, or the one before it, but the next one… two dots in an oval, between two uneven lines, with a trail behind it…. He points at the oval, and then to himself. “Is that me? In the canyon?” Him and Ben, on the speeder.

Obi-Wan frowns hard at the pictographs, points to the next one, and imitates shooting at the oval with the two dots inside it.

Another positive reaction. Well, now he knows what that image means.

“So you… shot at me.” He huffs out, looking at the story in the sand with confusion. They shot at him, and then the storm hit.

They shot at him, and then the storm hit.

Oh.

Oh.

He looks up. “You were warning us. You wanted us to stop. Because you knew the storm was ahead of us.”

There are many more pictures than that, though, and Obi-Wan looks at a preceding line of repeated symbols; two suns, he thinks, circles encircled in dashed lines, connected by a line, and then two lines, and then three, and then three dashes through crosswise-

Days.

Many days, he thinks, and before them two dots, surrounded by a ring of dots, above which was two crossed lines.

Obi-Wan laughs when he gets it.

‘ _They are upset that we haven’t visited for many days, and they were worried for us, because we went into the storm. When they shot us coming through the canyon, they were trying to warn us of the danger ahead_.’ He broadcasts to his master.

They finish smearing his hands in goop, and then carefully wrap them with thin linen, in spite of his attempts to insist it was fine. Obi-Wan endures it, and then carefully folds his hands and bows, because he does have manners and they were doing him a kindness, in their own way.

‘ _So they kidnapped you_ ,’ Ben replies.

‘ _So they kidnapped me_ ,’ Obi-Wan concurs.

‘ _Let us hope they’re amenable to giving you back_.’

Obi-Wan grins to himself a little. ‘ _ou aren’t considering, I think, that they may want to kidnap you as well._ _I rather think they’ve gotten fond of us_.’

And Tuskens were known to take people they might have grown fond of.

‘ _I don’t think I’ll be able to get to you till the heat starts letting up,_ ’ Ben warns. ‘ _Don’t get too comfy. And don’t get married accidentally_.’

 _'How would I know_?’

‘ _Just… err on the side of caution_.’

‘ _They’re handing me a black…. I think it’s a fruit? It might be an egg_.’ Obi-Wan inspects the offering, which is pressed more and more insistently towards his face.

‘ _It’s a melon. There is water inside. It’s safe enough to drink_.’

With that endorsement, Obi-Wan takes the melon with a quick smile, turning it over in his hands. ‘ _But what if I drink it and accidentally get married because I did_?’

Exasperation reaches him. ‘ _Just drink it_.’

Obi-Wan grins, cracking the rind of the fruit with his fingers. ‘ _But you just_ -‘

‘ _I’d rather figure out how to get you divorced than find you dehydrated. Don’t offend your hosts if you don’t have to. Just don’t get yourself trapped alone in a tent with someone_.’

He slurps some truly foul smelling water, and the Tuskens cheers and slap him on the back, making him cough.

‘ _I’ll do my best_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Sorry all! Really busy this past week or so, but I am still alive and kicking!


	33. Chapter 33

Ben arrives at the late edge of the afternoon, the first sun just starting to touch the horizon. He arrives with a barrel strapped to his back, and with his full kit of armor on beneath his cloak.

Obi-Wan, in the midst of sparring – that is to say, in the midst of being ganged up on by a gaggle of children who appear to be having great fun trying to hit him with their sticks – gets distracted by his arrival and thwacked in the shin.

“Oi!” He yelps at the child, who holds their tick up and hoots in victory before dashing off when Obi-Wan raises the staff he’s been given in a mock warning.

Obi-Wan gestures to himself, and then to his master, and makes a shooing motion at the rest of them. They pout.

Obi-Wan looks up just in time for the older Jedi to chuck his helmet at him. Obi-Wan catches it with his free hand and lifts a brow. “Are we fighting our way out of this?”

“Hopefully not.” Ben replies, his own face hidden behind an amber visor, his voice colored by the vocoder amplifier inside. “But in Tusken culture, it is proper to keep your face hidden.”

“We’re trying _not_ to get adopted.” Obi-Wan reminds the older man.

“Which is the other purpose behind the helmets. We already belong to a people of our own.”

Obi-Wan concedes to that reasoning and puts his helmet on. The tribe is starting to gather again, honking at Ben and giving him the same prodding once over they gave Obi-Wan, though with a bit more… consideration. They seem fascinated – and put out – by the _beskar’gam_. Tales of the Mandalorians are known even in the back reaches of Tatooine, after all.

Ben has a better grasp of the Tusken hand-language than Obi-Wan does, but the negotiations are still stilted and drawn out. If Obi-Wan isn’t mistaken, there _is_ at least one offer of marriage put forward – to Ben. Obi-Wan gleans enough of the gesturing to get the sense that they consider Obi-Wan good proof of Ben’s suitability as a sire and parent of children.

Well, the gesturing, and Ben’s slight embarrassment.

Embarrassment and mortification which doubles as the offer changes from marriage to something a bit more expedient and less permanent, and Ben emphatically gestures ~ _I have gratitude, but I do not accept!_ ~

Several of the women turn away to confer among themselves, and Obi-Wan grins beneath his helmet.

‘ _Stop laughing at me, Padawan_.’

‘ _But I can’t wait to tell your friends about this_.’

‘ _I_ can _leave you here_.’

‘ _You wouldn’t dare_.’

The women – and elders – turn back and surround Ben, settling low and close, and Obi-Wan misses most of the argument that follows partially because he can’t see everyone’s hands, partially because it drags out as Ben tries to navigate through it without causing offense while also struggling to comprehend.

They’re served dinner, which Obi-Wan appreciates, and eventually some sort of agreement seems to be reached. The little conference breaks up and Ben moves to join Obi-Wan, slumping down beside him with a huff.

“So…. is one of us getting married?”

“No,” Ben replies, popping his helmet so he can partake of his bowl of stew. “But if we want to avoid great offence and a potential blood feud for said offence, one of us is going to have to provide a genetic sample.”

Obi-Wan chokes.

“ _Just_ a genetic sample,” Ben adds mildly, like Obi-Wan isn’t still gasping and wheezing, having inhaled broth down the wrong tube. “I managed to explain we’d like to avoid any actual act of procreation, and they’re amenable to the idea. They’re familiar enough with seeding bantha calves in such a manner.”

“I am _begging_ you to stop talking.” Obi-Wan coughs, hitting his master in the arm with the side of his fist.

Ben smirks and gives him a look. “You weren’t the one who had to actually _negotiate_ that compromise, padawan, so I don’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to have to actually say it, but you are an attractive young man and now that you are an adult you should be more cautious of situations such as this.”

Obi-Wan groans. “Lesson learned, Ben.”

“Good.”

Obi-Wan spoons stew into his mouth and chews for a moment. He glances at his older counterpart, thoughtful, and then swallows.

“So many times did _you_ end up in such a situation?” he wheedles. “And how did _your_ master handle it?”

The older man balks. “Ah-“

~*~

They’re sent home with a small bushel of hard black melons, and they both resolve to put the awkwardness of the incident behind them.

In the life of a Jedi, these things happened.

They do take back up their walks to go sparring with their neighbors, though, to maintain their odd but friendly relationship with the Tuskens.

The vaporators start to draw less and less water, the dry season setting in. They spend more mornings milking banthas, and take more caution about their exposure to the increasing heat, which allows them shorter and shorter hours outside.

They also end up with more sand-adders creeping around the foundations, proving a hazard as well as a more common element to their meals, to say nothing of the centipedes and the stinging flies that Obi-Wan has gotten much better at warding off with the Force.

What time in the afternoon isn’t spent meditating, Obi-Wan attends to his studies, getting through some of his courses much quicker than he had first anticipated, and Ben muses with the idea of expanding the cellar. Being cooped up makes them both restless, and they spend longer and longer evening hours outside, after the suns set.

Meditating with his master only makes more clear that his sense of the Force, of the world around him, has shifted, in a way that has very little to do with the state of his shields, and much more to do with his own state of being, his connection to the Force and his understanding of himself.

“So is it my fault or Lukka’s?” Obi-Wan complains.

“I think you both deserve credit,” Ben replies dryly. “ _You_ have opened yourself up to greater power and awareness, deepened your connection to the Force, and you are so, so close, I think, to understanding that. However, I also believe that Lukka’s possession of you did open you up to an aspect of the Force you weren’t previously all that close to. You’ve always been strong in the Unifying Force. Those sensory changes you’ve been experiencing, however, suggest you’ve been less than graciously attuned towards a greater perception of the Cosmic Force as well.”

Obi-Wan frowns, rubbing at his jaw, eyeing the older man as he strokes his beard. The familiarity of the similar gestures strikes him, and Obi-Wan shakes his head.

The Cosmic Force was…. not a popular line of philosophy among the Jedi at present. It had always been a very elusive concept, and while it was noted that some Jedi strayed towards that aspect – psychics in particular had a strong connection to the Cosmic Force, which some attributed to being the reason why their gifts were so much more than that of seers, whose connection lay strongly in the Unifying Force – the Order at large maintained a limited scope for actually training themselves in it.

The philosophy surrounding the Cosmic Force had involved the notion of parting the veils around death and time, bridging connections to the Force where it involved or transcended such things. Such beliefs and ways of thinking had fallen out of favor long ago. In part because in ages past, the Cosmic Force had often been tied up in the vain pursuit of immortality, and in experiments that had been… horrific, as well as heretical, in attempting to return the dead to life. For a time, the study of the Cosmic Force had become too entrenched with the path to the Dark Side to be borne.

But Obi-Wan was old enough and wise enough to understand that the Force itself was neither inherently good nor inherently evil. It simply was, and what it was, was powerful, and power… power could be dangerous. Or maddening.

From a certain point of view, it could be considered a great privilege to have the horizons of his abilities expanded so expediently. Jedi whose strengths lie in one particular aspect of the Force tend to find branching into other fields of study and understanding a difficult endeavor. From another point of view, however, it was unsettling and disorienting – Obi-Wan has spent a lifetime experiencing a certain focal interaction with the Force and honing his senses and mental discipline to suit that process and level of interaction. That those abilities would grow and expand as he matured as a Jedi was a given, but not like this.

“I’ll live with it, I guess,” he mutters.

Ben snorts softly at him.

~*~

Obi-Wan focuses on his blade as it burns through the evening air, on the ruffle of the breeze through his hair, the shifting sand swirling around his feet, seeking a current between the three, a coherency.

He moves his blade to one hand, feeling keenly the lack of counter-weight provided by the staff, even as he finds a rhythm in his footwork that flows on the Force as well as on the sand, adding surety to his steps that should not otherwise be there. He can see the motion of the staff in his mind’s eye, the vicious, fluid whirl, and turns his wrist, drawing the motion in the air with his blade.

His brow furrows, eyes closed, and his mouth pulls. He understands the mechanics of the sweeping style of movement, sees in it the inherent elements that inspired it – the wind and shifting sands, the darting grace of desert birds, the sinuous swiftness of adders and dragons, the brilliant curve between give and take –

There is a wildness to the way the Tuskens fight, however, that lacks a Jedi’s precise discipline and control. And there is a counterweight his blade lacks that a staff provides. But this is not meant to be a staff form.

Obi-Wan adjusts, bit by bit. He pulls the motions in tighter, turns the angles of his body. The blade does not so much sweep as snap, the motions rigid, jarring.

He adjusts.

His feet stay in motion, and his body must follow, his blade must follow. Obi-Wan leans into the Force, pulling it towards him, letting it pull him, releasing the flow of his bladework into its guidance, the way advanced Shii-Cho is meant to be guided.

The breeze hisses past his ears, stray buffets of dust sizzling when his blade passes through them, leaving a whisper teasing against the pound of his heart, his blood, the thrum of his lightsaber…

He breathes, letting it carry him. All there is is this; the desert, the blade, himself.

The Force.

He lets his eyes open, chasing the brilliance of the lightsaber’s blade through the silver-hued shadows of sand dunes and starlight, rippling like water.

His lightsaber sings, and Obi-Wan is so perfectly attuned to it in this moment that when it joins the pulse of his blood, when its power teases around him, curling on his breath, sparkling against his skin with promise, with potential, with an echo of memory, he can almost, almost hear -

 _You are the river_.

He stumbles and slips in the sand, sweat rolling down the side of his face, down his chest. He swipes at his brow and pants, bending over his knees. He’s been further into the channel of the Force than he realized – a little carried away, in fact.

Obi-Wan looks down at his lightsaber, cradled warm and familiar and still so full of secrets and promises in his fingers, and then at his free hand, turning over his palm, remembering, for a moment, that place in the Force, in himself, remembering how the glittering stream followed his movement, his very being.

He sinks down to his knees, focusing on his breath, on resettling his body, and scoops up a palmful of sand, letting it spill from his fingers and catch on the wind.

And then he catches it with the Force, letting the grains drift on a whim, shivering and churning lazily in tune with his pulse, with his breath, twirling around his hand with a guiding curl of his fingertips, carried on the current of his presence, of his energy, pulling in his wake, pushing back against his force.

He smiles at the idea, but he is too tired and it is rather too late to be giving it a try tonight.

But _oh_ , what an idea.


	34. Chapter 34

“What are you  _ doing _ ? Put your tea back in your cup and  _ drink _ it.”

Obi-Wan lifts a brow at Ben, still teasing ribbons of amber-green liquid through the air between his hands, watching the way it flows and ripples and follows his movements. “I promise you, there is more to what I’m doing than frivolously using the Force for my own entertainment.”

Ben still grumbles, peering at him doubtfully, sipping snippily at his own cup. Obi-Wan can’t help but grin. The older man can be so  _ fussy _ at times.

_ I’m not like that, am I _ ?

Obi-Wan frowns, considering it.

_ Maybe I am _ .

While  he is resolved  to freak out about certain things as little as possible, given how scared Ben had been to tell him, Obi-Wan has also never felt so self-conscious in his life. Which  is saying  something. Almost every moment he finds himself analyzing the other man, analyzing himself through him, seeking out the similarities, the differences, trying to reason out the reasons for each.

It hasn’t escaped his notice that he is taller than the other man, and he hesitates to ask because there can’t be any good explanation as to why.

But not asking leaves him to imagine, and that doesn’t particularly sit well either.

Drops spill on the table, earning him a twitchily narrowed eye from his master, so Obi-Wan guides his tea back into his cup, letting it pool back into an inert state.

“Drink that.” His master nods at him. Obi-Wan half rolls his eyes, picks up his cup, and takes a sip.

He pauses.

It tastes….

It still tastes like tea, but it also tastes… it’s not really a taste, actually, but he can tell he’s touched it with the Force, and the essence of his Force presence lingers, which makes it…. weird.

Ben snorts at him, and the dubious expression on his face. “Care to enlighten me as to why you were playing with your tea?”

“Not yet,” Obi-Wan replies primly, quaffing the rest of his cup. “But I will let you know if I can make it work.”

Ben hums mildly, but the look he gives his padawan is one of tender pride, one that makes the padawan’s frustrations at his tricky problems seem worth it.

It occurs to Obi-Wan that he himself is often terribly easy to please, and very much succored by praise. He bites the inside of his lip to keep from smirking. He’s fairly certain that’s a trait he  _ won’t _ grow out of, which means…

While there are a great many things about this whole time-travelling alternate-self business that quite frankly keep him up at night, that catch him off guard and cause him headaches and heartache, if he seeks them out, there can be… less alarming things too. Beneficial things.

Amusing ones.

Things to keep in mind for the opportune moment.

Ben gives him a suspicious look and Obi-Wan tamps down on his own amusement. 

“Is there anything on our industrious agenda for this afternoon?” Obi-Wan inquires. He doesn’t have much coursework left as far as lectures or reading assignments, but he’s also ready to take a break from trying to make sense of his ten-thousand-word essay assignments and holo-presentations.

Honestly, as late as he was up last night, he could do with a nap.

“I was thinking I would start work on expanding the cellar, if you’re amenable to helping me move the shelving out of the way,” Ben replies.

“I can help you move shelving,” Obi-Wan agrees easily. He’s been contemplating sleeping down there, with the nightly temperatures  rising as they are.  Having the actual room to do so would be nice.

~*~

He does help Ben move the shelving that had been bolted to the walls and half rusted in place.

And then he does take a nap, which Ben wakes him from only when supper is prepared. Obi-Wan eats slowly, listening to his master’s rather engaged explanation of the local geology and the potential for the homestead’s architectural expansion relative therein.

“You had a different education than I did.” Obi-Wan says thoughtfully, after.

“Qui-Gon is a master of the Living Force. He highly encouraged me to take an interest in the natural sciences for my electives,” Ben explains. “I found interest in it, but I rather thought I’d let you have a freer choice in your own scholastic preferences. I would say it was a decision that paid off.”

Obi-Wan snorts softly. His education was certainly… something. A mix of healing arts, history, cultural anthropology, and philosophy, in addition to the typical curriculum required of a Jedi, and the occasional oddity thrown in by Master Ben’s suggestion. For having had a freer choice, his choices had still been highly influenced by the mentors he’s had – Master Ni Hiella, Master Ben, Jango Fett - inadvertent as  _ his _ influence had been.

But he supposes that was a bit true of all Learners.

Obi-Wan decides against saber practice that evening and climbs up the ridge instead – in part because he can sense the predatory intent and hunger of a Greater Krayt Dragon out in the Dune Sea, and he’d rather not get mistaken for a snack.

He goes up the ridge to meditate instead, avoiding his master’s usual spots so as not to intrude on the impressions he’s left behind.

He takes his jar.

It’s been broken and repaired several times, the rough glass scuffed and whirled with opaque white and off-white streaks where the sand didn’t quite form cleanly, the occasional bubble trapped in place. It practically exudes his Force presence, from his attempts at repair and from his practice with his sand exercise.

The sand exercise has taught him much of the physical mechanics of utilizing his connection to the Force, of manipulating objects with fine dexterity and finding detailed definition within his senses.

But the purpose, he gathers, is not a physical exercise, but a philosophical one. Connecting with the Force was not the result of a mechanical act, of a thought process, but the result of attaining a certain state of being. It was why an emphasis on focus and perspective were so inherent to the training of a Jedi, why consciousness and emotional discipline were so crucial.

He settles himself down in a pool of soft sand and dust, rivulets of glass running through one edge of his little crater from a lightning strike that hasn’t yet been worn back into grains of sand. He scoops handfuls into his empty jar, setting it between his knees, and stares at it while the suns sink below the horizon.

_ You are the river _ .

Obi-Wan has always found it simpler to imagine the Force as an entity similar to water – as a great current running through the galaxy, something life-giving, something that flowed.

It is more difficult to see the Force as a desert – in part, perhaps, because for quite a long time, he had never even  _ been _ to a desert, whereas he knew the shape and feel of water, understood it symbolically as well as physically.

There is a dissonance between the two metaphors, he thinks. Between the river, and the jar of sand. They are connected, they are, in essence, the same lesson, he thinks, but…

In this exercise, he has often considered himself the jar.  There is a desert within, and a desert without, separated by a fragile shell – by himself. But the desert is the Force. Internal, and external.

His brow furrows.

He went out into the desert before, and found the river, and the river brought him back to himself.

But the river was inside him.

The river was the Force.

And he was the river.

_ Of course the cup is empty _ .

He went searching so far for something that he walked out of his own body, that he nearly  _ killed himself _ , trying to find it.

_ But _ I _ was what I was looking for. _

_ The desert is the Force. The Force is the river. _

_ The river is me. _

_ Connection _ , Master Ben had emphasized, assigning him this impossible task.  _ Perception _ .

Obi-Wan cradles the glass in his hands, turning it, watching the sands shift inside.

_ I am not the jar _ .

His  _ perception _ of himself  is the jar .

Like the jar, it is real, and fragile, and yet it separates one thing from another – but like the jar, it isn’t really anything different from what is inside it or outside it at all. The glass is just sand, the sand is the desert. They seem different, and yet….

_ I am one with the Force and the Force is with me _ .

The very first lesson.

_ How many grains of sand are there _ ? His master had asked. Not a  _ question _ – a riddle.

_ One _ , Obi-Wan thinks.  _ And countless _ .

He is not the jar.

_ “Have you considered, Obi-Wan, that it isn’t your perception of the Force that is the thing being changed?” _

The Force is not internal, it is not external. It just  _ is _ .

But when Obi-Wan reaches out for it, he is the smaller thing, seeking power beyond his own measure. When he reaches in, however, he sees himself as a surrounding, something formlessly expanded around what he seeks.

It  _ isn’t _ the Force that changes.

_ It’s me _ .

He grins, pulling the jar to his chest, and flops back, staring at the hazy violet of fading light above him.

He laughs, because he is a  _ di’kut _ , because it is so, so simple and so, so hard to  _ see _ . Obi-Wan holds up the jar, looking at the amber grains through streaky glass.

_ I know how I need to see myself. But how do I  _ see _ it _ ?

Abruptly, he lurches back upright, folding himself forward as he sets the jar on the stone in front of him, lowering himself until he can see the line of sand in the jar match the line of the horizon over the dune sea, turning disparate elements into one unbroken landscape.

The flaws in the glass turn golden and brilliant with sunset. If he lets his eyes go unfocused, that is all that remains of the jar – just flashes of light, little more than a mirage.

He stares at it till the suns slip away, till the smudges disappear into the stars and the blackness behind them, and the jar  may as well not be there at all.

Then he reaches forward, brushes his fingers across the glass he has broken and mended many times, and he returns it to what it always was; from glass to sand, and the sand becomes the desert. Which some day might return it to glass again.

“It’s so  _ simple _ .” He breathes, letting the grains fall through his fingers, shimmering in Tatooine’s starlight.

Obi-Wan pulls himself up, clothes hopelessly infiltrated with sand, brushes his hands off, and settles back into a meditative position.

He understands what he needs to do. What remains is to actually  _ do _ it.

_ It is not within me. It is not without _ .

It just is.

He draws in breath; draws in cooling air, the taste of dust, the energy that flowed across the desert, as sure as the wind, as elusive as the shifting dunes.

He breathes out; what is given is given back.

Let it be.

Stop _reaching_.

Just  _ be _ .

_ I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me _ .


	35. Chapter 35

Ben would swear that his padawan is nearly an adult, and yet.

And _yet_ , the padawan bounds inside in the middle of the night and dives for his master with energetic purpose, apparently completely forgetting that Ben is a combat survivor with Traumatic Stress Response, and that he should not be tackled while sleeping.

Obi-Wan makes a shocked, choked sound, and Ben, heart hammering, blinks in slow awareness to realize he’s got his padawan pinned to the pallet, a knee on the boy’s gut and his arm pressing hard on the young man’s throat, one wrist caught in an iron grip.

‘ _-orry, sorry, I’m so sorry._ ’ Obi-Wan is blaring down the bond, flooding it with shock-guilt and just a trace of fear. ‘ _Safe, we’re safe. It’s okay. I’m sorry._ ’

Ben sucks in a harsh breath and releases him, slumping back till he hits the wall with his shoulder, using it to hold himself up.

“Don’t. Do. That,” he commands sharply.

Obi-Wan sits up cautiously, rubbing at his throat and wincing.

“Sorry,” He says meekly. “I wasn’t thinking, I just got… carried away.”

Ben sighs heavily, scrubbing at his face with both hands. His fingers are shaking, and he takes a minute to steady his breath, to calm his pulse and orient his senses.

“It’s the middle of the night, Obi-Wan,” he eventually notices, disapproving and a little cranky. It had been a very rude wake-up.

Obi-Wan shifts, sheepish and excited again. “I figured it out. The sand exercise.”

“Did you?” Ben lifts a brow. He’d figured that his padawan was on the brink of a revelation.

Obi-Wan grins, jubilant in spite of his scare.

“It was so clear. I could feel…everything. Like it was a part of me. No, like I was a part of it. I’ve always thought the Force would be – be sort of similar to our lightsabers. That it would be an extension of us. But it is the other way around, isn’t it? We are an extension of the Force. Of the world around us. Ben, it was so… so…. how is it so simple and so difficult?”

Ben chuckles, reaches across, and tugs Obi-Wan’s padawan braid. “Because we make it so.”

“I could only maintain it for a few moments,” the younger man's brow furrows. “Getting myself there seems… so simply intrinsic, but also so tenuous. I felt as though it should be natural to me, that state, that awareness, but… it shatters so easily.”

“That is because your understanding of the Force currently exceeds your mastery of yourself. That will come in time,” Ben assures him fondly.

Obi-Wan blows out a disgruntled breath, and Ben shakes his head. “I am proud of you,” the older man says.

Obi-Wan looks up, grey-blue eyes wide, a shimmer of luminescence in the dark. He looks down sheepishly and smiles again, this time soft and pleased. Ben shifts and draws him in, pressing their brows together.

“You’ve done well,” he murmurs, letting his padawan feel his pride, his affection, his surety. “But if you could let an old man sleep, we’ll find a way to celebrate in the morning.”

Obi-Wan barks out a scoffing huff of laughter and the two of them draw back, sharing exasperated looks.

“You are not an old man,” Obi-Wan huffs, but does move to strip off his outer layer, coincidentally shedding sand everywhere.

“ _Padawan_!”

~*~

Ben’s celebration is a hearty meal smothered in a thick, spicy cheese sauce and a surprise dessert of sweet honey seed cakes accompanied by an experimental milk tea that turns out surprisingly rich and altogether pleasing.

It’s pure Mandalorian comfort food, is what it is.

Obi-Wan enjoys it, basks in enjoying in, in the quiet pleasure of sharing a good meal with the older man. He lets the morning float on that good feeling till an easy morning turns into a hot, restless afternoon, and then he asks one of the hard questions.

“How did you become Mandalorian?”

Ben pauses, fiddling with a circuit for the water exchange system while Obi-Wan had been carefully pruning any dead stems from their little garden, the cellar cool and a little humid. The older man looks idly at the wall for a moment, gathering his thoughts while Obi-Wan studies him.

They joked, last night, about Ben being an old man. They’ve joked about it before, but the truth is – the truth is that Ben isn’t. For a human, he’s barely middle aged, for a Jedi, he should still be in his prime.

But both his body and his spirit have suffered more than their fair share of abuse. His face isn’t all that lined, the streaks of silver in his cinnamon hair more fetching than aging, but the weight in his eyes is heavy, is weary and aged and sad.

The man is strong, his frame solid, his bearing disciplined. He’s powerful, from the sophistication of his intellect, to his expertise as a swordsman, to the way the Force seems to cling to him and carry in his wake, to the way it settles in him, when he isn’t hiding himself away in it. But all that strength, and all that power, it came at a cost.

Obi-Wan looks away and bites the inside of his cheek. It has long made him angry, how unfair it seemed to be, that his master seemed so good, and yet, and yet so broken. The way his master seemed to punish himself.

That Ben is… was… him, it doesn’t change that, how unfair it seems, the hand fate dealt him. How angry that unfairness makes the padawan.

Even considering the second chance Ben had appeared to have been given.

It was a gift, one that Obi-Wan more than anyone can appreciate, but in a way… in a way it was terribly cruel. To lose so much, and then to be held twice responsible for not losing it again. To see your friends and yet be strangers, to have everything you thought you’d never see again and to know, to know, that it could all still be taken from you.

It must be desperately lonely, Obi-Wan thinks. He doesn’t blame his master for at times seeming half mad.

Obi-Wan has been left one luxury. Even if he knows what might happen, he at least is spared knowing what it actually feels like, to experience that loss, to _survive_ it.

He blinks from his thoughts to find Ben giving him a perceptive, shadowed look.

“I can be maudlin enough for the both of us, Obi-Wan,” Ben sighs.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Obi-Wan retorts, deadpan. Ben snorts, but gives him a piercing look regardless.

Obi-Wan crosses his arms. “You can’t just tell me to be happy and expect me to be happy. I’m allowed to feel sad for you, and angry at what you’ve been through, and afraid of what might happen to you. Maybe that wasn’t my life and never will be, but you are still my _baji’buir_. You are important to me and I care about you. And you are just going to have to live with it, because it is all your fault, you know. You can’t just adopt a padawan and not expect consequences.”

Ben huffs, but concedes, abandoning his work on the circuitry and moving to settle himself on one of the cushions they’d dragged down. Obi-Wan joins him, settling against a bare patch of wall and pressing his shoulder against the older man’s.

“I always did have a foolish heart,” Ben murmurs.

“Speak for yourself,” Obi-Wan scoffs, refusing to admit anything wrong about his affection for the older man.

Ben gives him a look, complete with a wryly raised brow.

Obi-Wan narrows his eyes. Yes, he knows. Obviously.

“Mandalore?” the padawan prompts, returning to the original question.

Ben draws in a deep breath, settling back against the wall and looking forward, letting out a long, soft exhale.

“When I was seventeen, I was assigned a protection detail in the Mandalorian sector. This assignment was to protect the Duchess Satine Kryze after the assassination of Duke Adonai Kryze, an event which occurred far earlier and in different circumstances than the ones we experienced last year. As there had been no re-emergence of Jango Fett, no budding relationship between the Jedi and Mandalore, and no attack on the Medical Research Station, it was the Duke’s assassination which sparked outright civil war in the system. I-“

“Hold on,” Obi-Wan blurts, hand on his master’s arm. “ Give me a moment, that’s…” a lot to process, he thinks, reeling with implications and revealed circumstances and a hundred questions to accompany them.

“Jango never returned to Mandalore?” he asks quietly.

“Without our interference in the matter, no,” Ben reveals. “ And I will get back to that.”

Obi-Wan swallows, nods, and lets Ben continue.

“You and I don’t have such different hearts, you know. I spent an entire year guarding Satine from assassins and mercenaries and battlefields. We were running for most of it, hiding, living hand to mouth, trying to find allies. Those were… exceedingly difficult times. We didn’t have half the resources you did, nor half the friends to support us.”

“You fell in love with her,” Obi-Wan states, the conclusion obvious. The thought is an awkward, painful, squirming one. If he was in love with Satine…

“Kindly stop making that face,” Master Ben huffs. “I fell in love with Satine, yes. She wasn’t, however, the girl you know. She was… she was just as brilliant, just as strong, but she was more brittle, a bit more zealous, and less forgiving. Of herself, of others. Even still, she did lead Mandalore to peace. To stability. But not as your Satine did. She chose the New Mandalorians. She didn’t have much of a chance not to choose them. And while there are not so many true pacifists among the Mando’ade, there were a significant number of clans who would rather have sided with the New Mandalorian way of life than with Death Watch, and eventually they did. It just took longer and cost them a lot more,” he says, and then sighs, stroking his beard. “Satine as she is now… I’m not going to fall in love with her, as admirable as I find her. She is not the woman I loved, and she is….” Ben grimaces slightly, and looks at the younger man oddly. “When you find yourself at my age, you will discover that there isn’t all that much attractive about a teenager, pretty and brilliant or not. The girl is practically a youngling.”

Obi-Wan scowls. “You know she’s older than me by a few months, right?”

Ben lifts a brow.

“ _Ben_!” Obi-Wan protests. “I am not a youngling!”

“Perspective, Padawan,” Ben says dryly.

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “So you fell in love with a Mandalorian girl.” He reiterates, pushing the conversation onward.

“I fell in love with a Mandalorian girl. I would have…. I would have left the Order, for her. If she had asked,” his tone colors with grief, with wist. “I didn’t regret my decision, but there were times where I…. I wondered. It left me with a lingering fondness for Mandalore, as admittedly awful as the entire experience had been, and I wanted… I wanted to see the good in it, the beauty. I suppose I hung on to that.”

Obi-Wan can understand that. Does understand that. There was much about Mandalore and Mandalorian culture, Mandalorian history, that was… harrowing and brutal. But there was much in it he could admire, much in it that could be appreciated.

He’s a little biased, but he forgives himself for that, considering.

“What you do have to understand is that…” Ben huffs a laugh. “I did not strictly _intend_ to become Mandalorian. But in a way, you can blame Jango Fett for it.”

Obi-Wan feels his face twitch.

“Years after I walked away from Mandalore the first time, there was… a war. A war that divided the entire Republic. A war the Jedi were …. politely drafted into. The Senate wanted us to serve as generals and commanders for their clone army.”

Obi-Wan blinks in confusion. “Clone army?”

“That is a story in and of itself, Padawan,” Ben mutters. “Yes, there was a clone army, quite to everyone’s surprise. Outfitted and ready just in time for the war to spark off.”

Obi-Wan frowns. “That sounds suspicious.”

Ben lets out a bitter laugh. “You have no idea. Regardless,” he waves a hand, moving past that for the moment, “these clones were genetically modified and enhanced reproductions of none other than Jango Fett, who at that time had spent years making a name for himself as the most effective bounty hunter in the galaxy. In addition to supplying the genetic template, Fett himself also trained these clones, and recruited many fellow Mandalorians to train these clones. They weren’t meant to be their own people. They weren’t designed to be anything more than…” Ben’s voice goes tight, hushed, hard, “…than droids with flesh, to fight and die for a cause they had no choice in. But it's not so easy for a Mandalorian to raise a child without raising the child to be Mandalorian. Let alone a few million of them.”

Obi-Wan chokes. A few _million…_ Jango Fetts.

“They weren’t true _Mando’ade_. They weren’t accepted by Mandalore, they weren’t even accepted by Jango Fett as real _ade_ -“

Obi-Wan jolts. “He didn’t accept _his own_ -“

“He wasn’t exactly the man you know.” Ben cuts Obi-Wan off. “He wasn’t a man who cared for anything more than vengeance. For a long time, it was all he had. I can’t say if he ever came to doubt the choices he made, but…” Ben shakes his head. “Don’t judge the man you know by the actions of the man he might have been.”

Obi-Wan nods shallowly, feeling small in the scope of events he doesn’t want to imagine.

“The troopers adopted the Mandalorian language. They learned everything so quickly and voraciously it would have been impossible for them not to pick it up. They developed their own customs regarding their armor, but it imitated the color culture and symbolism of their Mandalorian ancestors. They adopted the battle philosophies, the mourning rites, the odds and ends of a culture, of a people, that they never truly got to be. As I got to know them, I did worse than fall too easily into it. I encouraged it. Not overtly, but… I gave them what I thought I could without causing too much trouble. I wish now that I had gone ahead and caused more trouble. Maybe things wouldn’t have ended the way they did.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t have to ask how things had ended. There is grief and pain and regret enough from his master to tell him exactly how much he doesn’t want to know.

“I fought and bled with them. I let them into blasterfire and death. I celebrated victories with them. I mourned with them. My commander… Marshall Commander Cody,” Ben corrects himself, “ I trusted him with everything I had. He was my friend. My brother. He was my _vod_ , and I loved him.”

“He died?” Obi-Wan says softly. If Ben held Cody in anything much like the same esteem he held Jango, Obi-Wan doesn’t think Ben would have left him behind. Doesn’t think he could have left him behind.

“He didn’t, and that was worse,” Ben utters, “but in a way… I suppose he did. I think when it – at the – I think he died right there, right then, right behind me, and I didn’t even know it.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t want to ask.

He does not want to ask.

He doesn’t want to know.

“Don’t tell me.” Obi-wan blurts out. Pleads.

Ben looks at him miserably for a painful beat, and then drags a hand over his eyes, pressing back pain and heartache. “It is so hard to decide, Padawan, what you need to know.”

Obi-Wan grinds his jaw and looks away, looks down bitterly.

“What happened to them, what they did, it wasn’t their fault.” Ben whispers raggedly, the refrain painfully familiar. “I told you they weren’t designed to be anything more than droids with flesh. That they were men, that they had wills and desires… who they were was just collateral to what they were designed to do. It wasn’t their fault.”

Obi-Wan swallows painfully, against the older man’s anguish, against his own bitter reluctance. “What were they designed to do?”

Ben doesn’t look at him. That’s alright. Obi-Wan can’t look at Ben either.

“They were designed to destroy us,” Ben says with flat finality, staring off at the far wall. “And they didn’t even know it. They were a trap. The entire war was a trap. And we fell for it. All of us. We didn’t have much of a choice not to fall for it, not with the bait being the lives of billions.”

“War made a soldier out of me, padawan, whether I wanted it to or not. Mandalorian philosophy, the Mandalorian way, it makes it… easier to bear,” Ben says tightly. “But I didn’t claim to be Mandalorian in that life. I couldn’t. I needed to be a Jedi, more than anything. More than I needed life, Obi-Wan, I needed to remain true to being a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan can feel his master looking at him, so he turns and meets his gaze, nodding in empathy.

“But when I found myself here… when I realized I couldn’t be Obi-Wan Kenobi… I took the name Naasade on a bitter whim more than anything, apt though I feel it is to carry it, but allowing myself to be Mandalorian was… that wasn’t just dressing, just a disguise. It was my tribute to them, in a way. To my _vod_ , to Satine, to a life that could have been.”

He falls quiet.

Obi-Wan stares at the cellar floor for a long few minutes, tracing cracks in the packed dirt with his eyes. Eventually, he drags his gaze over and shifts, turning in towards the other man and dragging him into a brittle hug. “ _Vor entye_.” Obi-Wan whispers, head bowed close to Ben’s shoulder. Thank you. “For telling me.”

Obi-Wan takes a breath.

“I’m sorry – about Cody. About Satine,” he adds softly, with feeling. “About Anakin, and the Jedi, and what happened to you.”

Obi-Wan pulls back to look his master in the eye, and Ben looks away, eyes red and wet. “I think you should stop there,” the older man says hoarsely.

Obi-Wan squeezes Ben’s shoulder and nods, blinking the sting out of his own eyes. There has been a lot revealed that he himself has yet to process, that he’s going to need time to even… he’s going to need time.

And privacy, he thinks.

But right now, he needs to care for Ben, and the wounds he’s opened.

“Alright,” Obi-Wan says simply, swallowing his own alarm, his own bewildered sorrow, pressing it down to be dealt with later.

The two of them sit there awhile, Ben slowly pulling back together the parts of himself he's unravelled, Obi-Wan providing a stable sense of calm, of safe companionship, giving him the space and time to do so.

When he finally moves, Ben lays a hand on his padawan's cheek, surprising the younger man. Blue-grey eyes meet blue-grey. "Sometimes I think you're more than I deserve."

Obi-Wan blinks, feeling his ears turn red at that soft regard. 

"I think I am exactly what you deserve," Obi-Wan manages to mutter, glancing away from the gentle, sad way his master smiles at him for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: AH, I need to rant about the latest episode of the Mandalorian.
> 
>  ***** SPOILERS FOR THE MANDALORIAN!!! *****  
>  What....the....hell.  
> Okay, to a first: Bo-Katan's characterization? Perfect. Right out of TCW and Rebels. Her age? Um.... love the actress (like, she was perfect for Bo-Kat!!!), but make-up made it look like they transplanted Bo-Kat right out of the end of TCW. Like, she de-aged from Rebels. Girl, where did your little age lines go? From the show, I figured she was at least Anakin's age, though I suspected older than Anakin (though I understand she was younger than Satine, I just didn't think by _that_ much, because where was this girl during Satine's year on the run?).  
> Anyway.  
> Can I just express that I do not trust Disney with Star Wars?  
> Sequel trilogy? Killed me. Love all the Force shenanigans they came up with, hated that they took a story about a scavenger and a former child soldier, about these nobodies from these hostile, selfish places and set them on the path of a jedi and then butchered it for the next two movies to make a bad disney princess remake of the tragedy of Anakin Skywalker complete with a pop up of the same bad guy. There was no fore-planning, they kept changing the story, there was so much missing information, not to mention direct in script contradictions between the 2nd and 3rd movies. UGH.  
> BACK TO THE MANDALORIAN THO.  
> Like, the Mandalorian is a fun show, if you ignore the fact that they wrote it at the start like they'd never seen TCW or Rebels or anything about Mandalore other than OT Boba Fett and cool beskar armor. The Watch? What is this sudden emergence of weird cult-faction of Mandalore? Sure as hell isn't the Death Watch from TCW. Why.... why did they not call it something else? Why did they not make some completely unbefore-known faction with it's own name instead of this confusion with Death Watch and Clan Vizsla? Like, that would make more sense in relation to existing canon. (not that I think star wars knows what that is, at this point, tbh)
> 
> Although - i have to say I love that they really just made Din's character that stiltedly awkward. Like, in comparison to your average person in the show, he is the weird guy. poorly socialized. makes awful jokes. heart in the right place, but dad instincts poorly applied.
> 
> AND WTF DISNEY?  
> Bo-Katan: I'm the last of my clan.  
> me: So they just kinda.... killed Korkie Kryze, huh?
> 
> And!
> 
> TIMLELINE WHAT TIMELINE THIS SHOW IS WORSE THAN ME!  
> Why is Fulcrum chilling on some forest moon? If we are at the point in time this show keeps vaguely referencing we are, she should be looking for Ezra!  
> Do we... do we get to join her to look for Ezra? Do we get to confront Din with Sabine Wren? Do we get to venture into the unknown regions?  
> Do I trust Disney with the characterization of beloved characters? No!
> 
> That Mon Calamari dude with his sweater and his hip-waiters, tho. Perfection.
> 
> ***** END SPOILERS *****
> 
> I have so many feelings about this mess.
> 
> **EDIT: How did this arc end up over 80k words? Every time my brain registers the word count we've jumped another 20k and i was worried at the start that i couldn't make it interesting enough to last 40k so now i'm just like..... well okay then.


	36. Chapter 36

The intense lightning storms become more frequent, and Ben shows Obi-Wan how to meditate through them, how to feel the currents of wild energy in the air, how to predict them, how such raw power can be channeled by such gentle means.

In theory.

Obi-Wan, as much faith as he has in his master, isn’t exactly ready to go out walking through the storms.

Ben starts him off small, grounding and channeling several thousand less joules of energy from a cobbled together little igniter before attempting anything that might liquify his insides if he messes up.

Obi-Wan spends a great deal of time down the ridge on his own, working out and testing ideas for his lightsaber form, but he’s taking time to make sure he and his master get to spar, too. Ben hasn’t exactly been idle, but he’s not as fighting fit as he used to be, and Obi-Wan thinks its about time they rectified that.

It’s energizing in a way it didn’t used to be, sparring with his master, knowing, _knowing_ , now, that all that skill, all that perfected technique and prowess, it was within his reach. He was capable of that.

He paces himself, but he itches to give it his all in these bouts, itches to be pushed to his limit, to really test himself against the older man in a way he wasn’t so eager to do before, knowing how completely outclassed he was, but…

He paces himself. Ben is still recovering, still adapting to his new leg. He has to work himself back into form first, before Obi-Wan gives in to the urge to run them both ragged.

He doesn’t doubt his master will still dance circles around him, but the challenge doesn’t seem quite so woefully vain anymore.

And besides…

Ben learned his skills the hard way, through failure and defeat. Obi-Wan doesn’t want to only search for those skills after his own have failed him. As talented and trained a combatant as he already is, he’s also feared truly giving in to becoming the soldier, to becoming a weapon, but if he trains now, if he molds himself and pushes himself _now_ , into the warrior his master proves he can be… he hopes for less failure. Less defeat. Less _loss_.

He didn’t see that so clearly before, and Ben has been so, so patient with him.

As soon as Ben has cleared enough room to do so, they move their pallets down into the cellar. Obi-Wan ends up moving some of his masters things, and scowls when he swears he can see eyes on the cover of the creepy book, eyes that seem intelligent, that seem to watch him. When he picks it up, however, the illusion vanishes in the scrawling, maddening array of patterns carved on its face, and the object seems utterly inert. He never gets a sense of malice from it, but it unsettles him all the same.

“Why do you have to carry this around?” Obi-Wan complains.

“It has secrets to reveal,” Ben replies simply. “It was given into my hand for a reason. I’m sure we’ll unravel it in time.”

“Are we sure it’s a _good_ reason?” Obi-Wan mutters.

Ben pauses in a way Obi-Wan doesn’t like, and Obi-Wan frowns at him.

“It came with a warning,” Ben replies, shrugging. “I’m not sure the reason is good so much as it is perhaps necessary.” He takes the book from Obi-Wan’s hands and traces the pages in bemusement.

“What warning, exactly?” Obi-Wan inquires warily.

“That the contents of this book, when they choose to reveal themselves, have given some witches great power, and driven others to despair. That sometimes what must be taught is of more importance than one’s desire to learn, and that we are not always the learner, but the lesson itself.”

Obi-Wan grumbles under is breath. “I don’t like it. _Has_ it revealed anything to you?”

“The heart trusts not the mind, the mind trusts not the body; the soul deceives all three.” Ben recites, with the sort of jovial carelessness that drives the padawan crazy.

“ _I don’t like it_ ,” Obi-Wan stresses.

“Duly noted,” the older man smirks.

As the temperature of their environment continues to grow more unbearable, their routine shifts to compensate. They spend longer and longer evening hours up and about, and take to napping for at least part of the too-hot afternoons. By the time the ghastly heat of day starts to give way, Obi-Wan is grateful to slip outside. The arid breeze isn’t exactly cooling, but it’s a relief from how stifling the heat turns the hovel by late afternoon.

Being out and about at night means he needs to be more cautious of the local fauna, which are also more active around a diurnal cycle, but his trade off for increasing his chances of getting mauled were that he could peel out of his layers once he’d started to work up a sweat, no longer in danger of the suns searing him to a crisp without the protective layers of his tunic and robe.

Obi-Wan works himself through a basic series of katas, Shii-Cho and Soresu, as a warm up, and then he shifts into the sweeping pattern of footwork he’s been practicing and breaking down into individual movements, drawing himself into the guidance of the Force as his body finds rhythm.

It’s gentle, almost relaxing, like this, like the slow eddies on the edge of a stream, a languid, unhurried sense of motion. He shifts his saber into a single hand, slows his motion even further, and studies the currents of his movement as his master taught him to study the currents of power running through a storm, the channels moving forwards and backwards.

The strength of the Tusken’s staff-style was the surge of force, the push-pull of weight and counterweight creating balance, the give and take of energy, and cyclical conservation of momentum. Wild and sweeping, like the sandstorm, like the wind, like the lightning. Something that pulls in and pushes back.

Obi-Wan is the weight.

His struggle has been the counter-weight, the anchor, turning an expulsion of force into a rotation, feeding its own return so it can surge outwards again, the way a tide must rush away to rise up, the way a staff must be pulled back to strike forward.

The breeze tugs, and Obi-Wan watches dust devils tease across the crest of a dune before disappearing.

He shifts his balance and twists at the wrist, at the elbow; fluid, neat motions, spinning his saber in a twisting loop, a figure eight from one side to the other, a simple defense. He does it again, again and again, until the current of the motion is fixed in his mind, until its all but seared on the air. He feeds into it, just a little bit of power, creating a channel, like coaxing lightning.

He keeps doing it, that tight, imple spin and flicker-quick blade work, that rocking shift of balance, his feet ever shifting. Most saber forms required a sense of grounding, and for good reason, but the strength of the technique Obi-Wan intended to develop would no be one of sheer physical endurance. It was not meant to block, but to guide an opponents energy away, to turn it aside or reflect it, turning it back on them. He did not need his feet to be firm on the ground. He needed his form to be grounded, rather, in the Force, in his own current of motion – a current he hoped could be shared among more than one combatant, but that was rather far ahead of him yet.

Small steps.

Obi-Wan himself is not an adequate counterweight for his saber, not between his body and his blade. But he thinks, that if he looks at what he is doing not as a continuous progression forward, but as a _cycle_ , if he can leverage where his is going against where he has already been, then he can use the Force, use the backwards draw of his prior actions to counter-balance the following ones, the same way a pendulum is pulled down by first being pushed up, and pushed up by the momentum of its own weight pulling it down.

He widens his next turn, and his saber flicks the ground, hissing as it strikes sand and carries it up. _This_ takes a little more direct focus and controlled intent. He’d been going for sand, not molten glass, but…. he would take what he got.

His blade moves, the glass follows, molten drops cooling quickly into dull milky pearls, tracing his bladework as he continues to move, pulling on it, but never intersecting. At least until he slows his physical movements, but the momentum he’s built in the Force, in his place in the world, keeps carrying forward, and the glass meets his blade again, sizzling as it dribbles.

Obi-Wan bites the inside of his cheek. _That could be dangerous in and of itself_ , he thinks.

He chews a little.

 _That might not be a bad thing_.

Obi-Wan takes a moment, reflecting, analyzing his movements, the physical ease and exertion, seeking out any shortcomings he might think of, any adjustments he might make.

Then he does it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Each time a little better, the physical motions smoother, the flow of the Force more certain, the shifts and turns of his footwork, of his body, of his momentum, all faster and stronger.

~*~

Obi-Wan wakes from his nap to hear his master casually sniping with… himself.

 _Am I awake_? He wonders.

But yes, it appears he is. His master is making a face at his holocron, which is sitting on the floor in amidst the latest batch of rubble from Ben gently taking apart the stone walls with the Force. Obi-Wan doesn’t know exactly what plans his master has for all the extra space he keeps carving, but carving it out gives him something to do, so Obi-Wan also doesn’t mention it.

“ – only conclude you don’t know yourself as well as you think you do.” The holocron says, arms half-crossed, one hand stroking its beard.

Ben points a huffy finger at it. “That – is unhelpful. You are supposed to make me feel more sane, not less.”

“I am a learning program designed to assist you in recording and processing your experiences. I am only a therapeutic tool; the prognosis of your sanity is beyond me.”

Obi-Wan cant help but snort. It _sounds_ just as dry and sardonic as his master can get, that’s for sure.

“Padawan, you’re awake.”

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Obi-Wan says, but gestures at their present sleeping arrangement. Ben was the one who had brought the holocron out – Obi-Wan had already been asleep.

“Not at all.”

Ben and the holocron _both_ address him, in exactly the same manner and tone.

 _Oh_.

He suddenly understands some of the _looks_ , he and Ben receive, at times, for being a little _too_ alike. He feels the corner of his mouth quirk.

“Alright,” Obi-Wan says, glancing between the two. “Is there… erm-“ this is awkward, actually, but he does want to help the older man, so, “ – can I be of assistance?”

“It’s not-“

“Yes.”

Obi-Wan glances between them again, at the disgruntled look Ben sends the utterly unruffled holo-projection of himself.

Obi-Wan picks a side. “Shush, you,” he dismisses the holocron and looks to his older counterpart. “It’s up to you. I just thought I would offer. I’d like to be able to help you, for you to be able to come to me.”

Ben looks proud and grimacing and then deflates wearily, nodding his head and crossing his arms.

“I am attempting to deal with my anxieties,” Ben admits.

Obi-Wan smiles gently at him. “That’s a good thing,” he says, just as he knows his master would say to him.

Ben hardly looks mollified though.

“I was… genuinely afraid to tell you… to tell you,” Ben says slowly.

Ben does him the courtesy of looking away when he admits; “I know. I knew you were.”

Ben blows out a breath and closes his eyes, leaning back against the wall for support. “You were kind about it.”

“Ben.” Obi-Wan gives him a soft look. _As if you wouldn’t be_?

A cinnamon brow twitches ruefully. “I need to deal with those fears,” he admits.

Obi-Wan feels his brow pinch a little. “Are you still afraid?”

Ben grimaces. “In a way I suppose I am. What truly bothers me, of those fears, however, is the disservice they do to _you_. They are my anxieties, but the persistence of them belittles your character and that isn’t… fair, I suppose I would say.”

Obi-Wan breathes in steady and slow, knowing out of habit that Ben will fall into the pattern with him, that his being centered would help center him. Such as it was between masters and padawans, and it went both ways. “What exactly did you fear?” Obi-Wan can’t help that his voice drops a little, as silly as that is – they were so far distant they may as well have been on a planet of their own. No one is going to overhear them. No one is going to judge them.

Ben lowers himself to sit, pushing aside a few rocks to clear a space for himself on the floor. “That you would be… angry with me. Ashamed of me. That you would reject me, or… or….” Ben looks miserable, feels miserable, and Obi-Wan can taste his reluctance to say more, to admit to more, can feel his shame.

Obi-Wan breathes in, and thinks about where they are, about how long the answers were in coming, and how far out to the edge of the galaxy he had to be taken to get them. “That I would hate you,” Obi-Wan finishes for him, the words soft and unhappy. “That I would _leave_ you.”

There is a sense of cracking, something sharp and sudden and cold – loneliness, bitter and damning.

Obi-Wan pushes up off his pallet to cross the room and stops halfway. He tries to ease some of the tension out of his own body, but he’s stiff with reciprocal pain, with anger – not at his master, but at circumstance, at the injustice of suffering – and he thinks he can’t just pull Ben out of this one. Ben has to come to him too.

“I’m right here,” Obi-Wan says. “ _I_ am not leaving.”

“ _Why_?” Ben looks at him, a sort of guilt-induced anger of his own in his eyes, anger _at_ Obi-Wan, for offering a kindness he feels he doesn’t deserve. For giving him hope, when he was so certain that the next truth, the next reveal, would finally be too much, that his failures would be too insurmountable, and he would lose another loved one, as he has lost, and lost.

Ben practically _bleeds_ with it.

It’s a caustic kind of self-preservation, that denial of hope.

Obi-Wan knows exactly what it feels like.

“You told me the day we met that you would likely fail to be what I might wish for in a master, in a jedi, in a man. Because you _feel_ like you have failed as a master, as a jedi, as a man.”

“My failures were absolute-“

“No,” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “They weren’t. Or you wouldn’t be here, and neither would I.”

Obi-Wan kneels, staring his master down eye to eye. “You can give the best you have to give, and still not succeed. Failure isn’t a _crime_ , Ben. I am sad for you, and horrified of what you’ve been through, and scared of what you represent. I do get angry at you. I get impatient and frustrated and sometimes you drive me crazy, but I do not hate you, and I am _not_ leaving you.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because that would be _my_ failure. Because I am a Jedi, and if I give up on you, then I give up on myself. I can’t do that. Giving up on ourselves is the only failure we can’t come back from.”

“You’re not me,” Ben utters.

“But I could have been,” Obi-Wan says resolutely. “And you could have been me. It’s not fair, Ben, it’s not rational or reasonable or right. It’s a mess, and it’s the mess we’re stuck in. But we’re in it together.”

Ben covers his face with his hands and breathes in deep, collecting himself. “When did you get so wise?”

“The man who raised me required a lot of patience,” Obi-Wan quips. “And made me read a lot of poetry.”

Ben barks a laugh, dropping his hand from his eyes. Obi-Wan holds his gaze, and Ben’s humor fades too quickly, staring back, unease still rife beneath the surface. Obi-Wan’s fingers clench tight, and he waits.

Slowly, slowly, Ben moves, picking himself up and crossing the room, meeting Obi-Wan where he stopped in the middle. He offers the padawan a hand and pulls him up.

“You can’t cure me of my fears,” Ben says, sounding sorry for it.

Obi-Wan smiles ruefully. “I know, but I can be here while you fight your demons, and I will be.”

Ben lets out a shaky breath and gives an equally shaky nod.

Then he breathes in, and breathes out, and the unease smooths away, the loneliness gets tucked back in, the cracks all shorn up.

Obi-Wan sighs.

Ben looks to him, feeling sorry, and reaches over to clasp his shoulder. He’s _trying_ , but habits die hard. “Thank you, Obi-Wan,” he says, but it sounds like _I’m sorry_.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is just... unhappy.
> 
> Alcoholism, relapse, truama.

Ben takes himself up onto the ridge, climbing a pillar of stone to settle himself by the gnarled, stubborn trunk of a rather small and scraggly japor tree, clinging to its perch of rock, the roots trailing hundreds of feet down the ridge and even into the bedrock itself, drawing scattered nutrients and moisture with which to nurture itself.

It’s been struck by lightning more than once, but it has survived.

The branches are hard, bony things that look brittle but aren’t. Japor is called wood-ivory for a reason. It is so much more durable than it seems. It endures storm after storm, heat and drought and snarling wind. Ben brushes his palm over one gnarled twist in the trunk. It does not surprise him that japoor is considered a lucky plant on Tatooine.

Ben can see Obi-Wan down where the bedrock starts to sink beneath the sweeping sands, where the ridge meets the Dune Sea, meticulously working through his developing form, the blaze of deep jade green an elusively compelling sight.

The root elements behind the form are wild, there is no denying that, even as Obi-Wan hones them into something sharper, cleaner, not necessarily _controlled_ so much as contained. Yet, as Ben observes from a distance, he can see something almost…elegant, in its execution, something not dissimilar, he thinks, to a dance. It’s deceptively gentle, for as much power as Ben can feel Obi-Wan drawing through himself and into the world.

 _He’s getting there_ , Ben thinks. He’s very proud of the young man, in a way that brims up and yet aches.

Ben looks away, leaving Obi-Wan to his privacy and his work.

He has his own to do.

It is easy to admit, he thinks, that he has been harmed by war, by violence, by anger and loss and loneliness. It is easy to admit that he has scars left by the likes of Maul, of Ventress, of Palpatine, that they have done him cruelty and harm with malice and succeeded in leaving him wounded.

It was less easy to admit, and took a long time to accept, that he had been harmed by Qui-Gon Jinn, by the man who had been his master, and who did it without malice and often without even realizing it.

 _What exactly did you fear_? Obi-Wan had asked, and then struck right through to the truth of it; _That I would hate you. That I would leave you_.

_“You’re going down a path I can’t follow!”_

Padme had been the one to say it, but oh, Ben could have wept those words.

 _Come back. Please, come back_.

Anakin… Anakin hadn’t.

Neither of them had been enough.

His chest hurts, his _head_. There is a very delicate lattice-work of mental barriers and fragile perceptions of the truth keeping his mental state intact, keeping the events of those few days from crushing him completely. A maze around a psychic, spiritual wound that to this day has the power to utterly consume him, that Ben can only warily tread the edges of on his best days.

He presses his palms over his eyes, against the pressure in his skull that warns him he can only go so far, can only get _so_ close.

Ben can admit that Maul ravaged his heart by cutting down his master, cutting down the woman he loved. He can admit that Ventress savaged his mind and body, that she came so terribly close to breaking him in exactly the way she had wanted to break him. He can admit that Sidious ripped his soul to pieces, with the clone troopers, with Vader, with the genocide of the Jedi.

He can accept that he was harmed by Qui-Gon’s treatment of him, little as he wants to admit it, and that many of his anxieties stem from the events of his padawan years.

But Ben isn’t afraid of _Obi-Wan_ because of _Qui-Gon Jinn_.

It goes beyond that, the intensity of those fears, those faults; newer and reaching far deeper than that.

Qui-Gon Jinn had been his teacher, his mentor. Ben had loved him, and respected him, but there had always been a stinging divide between them, a distance that would likely never have been resolved.

Anakin….

It had always been difficult to accurately place his relationship with Anakin. The closest thing he’d had to a child; his student, his brother, his best friend, his partner. They had been the Team. Two halves of a whole. However he dared to define it, his love for Anakin Skywalker had always eclipsed any other relationship in his life. _Anakin_ had always eclipsed anyone else in his life. How could he not?

And Anakin had….

It _hurts_. A pain that claws its way out from somewhere deep inside, sharp and writhing and explosive, a pain that makes him want to flee, to run, to hide. One he can’t quite look at, one he has done everything in his power to reject.

It snatches his breath and puts pressure on his bones; paralyzes him and makes him want to scream. The feelings beneath are ugly and overwhelming; betrayal, bitterness, fury, and…

 _No_. Ben digs his fingers into his knees, brow furrowed tight, rejecting it.

He can’t. He can’t feel that way.

He _can’t_.

He can’t truly accept that _Anakin_ had…

That the worst of his fears stem from Anakin. That there is a _darkness_ in him that stems from _Anakin_.

That Anakin had hurt him worse than anyone else ever could.

 _He loved me. He was half of who I was_. Ben had never doubted those two truths, not once.

_It wasn’t Anakin. It wasn’t._

_He can’t have done that to me._

_He can’t have._

_He wouldn’t._

_He loved me_.

And Anakin’s love was a powerful thing. As powerful as the Force itself.

Ben cannot admit, cannot fathom accepting, that someone he loved, someone he trusted and believed in _that_ much, that someone who loved him as deeply and fiercely as Anakin was capable of loving, would betray him, would hurt him so deeply and brutally.

_It wasn’t Anakin’s fault._

_It can’t have been._

Ben failed him. The Jedi hadn’t been able to give him what he needed. Sidious manipulated him.

It wasn’t his fault. He wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been forced to. He can’t have meant it.

 _Then why am I terrified_?

If the last young man he’d trained, he’d cherished, he’d given his faith to, if he hadn’t betrayed him, disappointed him, abandoned him, why was Ben so afraid that it could happen again?

“Kree-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.” A sharp, coarse cry snaps Ben from the spiral of his thoughts, his emotions still roiling, the Force around him mired in a murky uncertainty and denial. On the branch of the japoor tree trailing above him, a small red bird croaks its coarse little song. “Kree-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.”

It eyes him, turning its round little head from side to side, small, glass-drop eyes shining wet and dark. It ruffles its vibrant red plumage and hops, bending to croak at him. “Kree-a-tat. Kree-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.”

“Am I upsetting you?” Ben inquires hoarsely.

It darts down, almost alarmingly quick, and perches on his knee, still studying him, turning its head this way and that.

It pecks his hand with a thorn-sharp beak and takes flight.

Ben sucks in a hiss and draws his hand in, shocked at how very vicious that little peck proved to be, blood seeping between his thumb and forefinger. “I guess I was,” he mutters.

He watches it dart and swoop towards the sunset and then wheel against the burning amber of the horizon and the violet crest of dim stars to fly down over Obi-Wan, who startles and turns to watch it as it catches the evening wind and flickers about on the currents, skimming low over the sand before rising faster than its wings could have carried it and darting off into the night.

Obi-Wan pushes his floppy hair back, wiping sweat off his brow, and falls back into practice.

Ben looks away from him, staunching the flow of blood with the edge of his sleeve, damping the cloth with a bit of saliva to clean it up. It stings.

Ben sighs, drawing in a deep breath and sighing again. He scrubs his hands over his face. He feels tired. He feels so _tired_.

He doesn’t want to think about this. To feel it. He’d rather bury it forever, even if it's selfish, even if it's cowardly.

But he can’t.

He _can’t_.

Protecting his memories of Anakin comes at a cost, not only to himself, but to the young man who is here, now, right in front of him, who looks at him so _clearly_ and offers him so much faith it shames him.

_Giving up on ourselves is the only failure we can’t come back from._

Ben folds forward, bowing over the sand till the world turns small, his breath drawn close between his body and the earth. Wind whistles over his neck, tugging at his hair. Crystal grains press gritty against his brow, stirring under his breath.

“Anakin.” Ben breathes. “Anakin, Anakin, Anakin. I’m sorry.”

_Forgive me._

_Forgive me, Anakin, forgive me._

_I hurt you._

_I left you._

_I betrayed you_.

Ben shudders. His eyes burn, and he can feel the swell of tears leaking through his lashes. His throat tastes of sulfur and burning flesh. His heart feels like it's clenched in ice, driving cold against his soul.

 _And you did the same to me_.

~*~

The call coming through probably saves a few lives, because Jango Fett is standing in the middle of a hydroponic crop-house, one of twenty new such facilities on Mandalore, staring at several thousand dying plants, because some crew of fucking morons couldn’t be bothered to properly maintain their filtration system and ended up with foul water.

Without some immediate distraction, he was very liable to have beaten at least one of them to death. As it is, Jango snarls at the director that he’s handing their operation over to the fucking _jetiise_ AgriCorps - as aggravating as he finds the rishii in charge - and tells the technicians responsible that they can disappear or _he will make them disappear_.

He cannot tolerate these kinds of fuck-ups right now. _Mandalore_ cannot tolerate these kind of fuck-ups right now. He scowls darkly and turns back on the crew, the comm alert still beeping inside his bucket.

The technicians flinch.

“Your clans are still responsible for this. Whatever the _jetiise_ need to fix this – you provide, _tayli’bac_ ?” He growls out lowly. _Understood_?

“Yes, _Mand’alor_!” They look churlish about it, but he doesn’t give a damn. If they didn’t screw up, he wouldn’t have to - very benevolently, he might point out - send the _jetiise_ in to save their _sheb’se_.

If he’d have sent Bo-Katan on this tour she’d probably have removed a few hands, if not a few heads. Fortunately or unfortunately, Jango had taken the task instead.

Bo-Katan has more important concerns at the moment.

Jango stalks outside onto a skywalk and jerks a hand for his protective detail to give him breathing room before they all come flanking him. Two of them nod, one of them crosses their arms in a sulk and the one in the snipers sweet spot just waves. They’re all Bo-Katan’s age, good kids from loyal clans, and he feels more like their babysitter on any given day than they feel like his bodyguards.

He’s never needed bodyguards a day in his life.

However… there are traditions, and honor, and if Satine tells him he needs to take someone into his personal guard he takes them into his personal guard. Considering she’s doing most of the work in pacifying clan politics, he’s taking her lead.

Annoyed with the beeping in his ear, Jango finally takes the call, popping off his bucket.

“Ben!” He half grins before – well, before he gets a look at him, and notices that he’s calling from some cheaply encrypted public holo-com unit. “Ben? Are you – _vod_ , are you fucking drunk? Where are you? _Osik_ , where’s-“

 _Obi-Wan_ , he wants to say. It looks like Ben’s in some grubby cantina somewhere, and he looks like he’s – well, like he’s a relapsed alcoholic who has just done something very, very stupid.

“ _I needed a drink_ ,” Ben barely slurs, his prissy Coruscanti accent sharp with bitterness.

“Yeah?” Jango snipes. “And how many did you have?”

Ben looks fucking miserable, and he crumples in on himself, dragging a hand over his face. “ _I just want it to not hurt_ . _I miss him so much. I miss my friends. I miss my life_ . _We should have won the war. We should have won. It was going to be over. It was going to be over and we could have – we could have fixed – I could have fixed - we could have_ -” He takes a struggling, hitching breath, and looks like he’s going to hurl.

Jango feels like he’s been hit with a bucket, with that deluge of absolute anguish spilling out of Ben and dousing him like cold water.

“ _Vod_ , look at me,” Jango commands. It takes a minute, Ben staring glassily beyond the holo-view before he manages to focus in the vicinity of Jango’s eyes. “Your banthashite current circumstances aside, I want you to listen to me; What happened, happened. You couldn’t have changed it. You couldn’t have done it differently. No matter how wronged you were, how close you came to success – nothing could have saved them.”

“ _How do you know – if we had – if_ I _had_ –“

“Ben,” Jango bleeds for him, he does. He knows, in a way few unlucky bastards ever will know, how much it destroys you, to be the one that didn’t die, when _everyone else_ did. “ I know because you were there, and you were already doing everything you thought you could do, to the best of your ability to do it. We only get to make our choices in the moment they’re presented to us, and we make them with our best intentions, our best judgement, and that’s – that’s all we’ve got. That’s all we get. That moment of choosing, right then, right there, with what we know at that moment, what we feel at that time. To say you could choose differently if you’d just known, if you’d just had a moment to think – it’s banthashite, because you didn’t know. You didn’t have the time you needed to think. You had a choice, and you had to make it, and that was it. That’s all it ever is.”

Ben swallows, closes his eyes, and reaches, with a jedi’s ridiculous accuracy, for a chipped glass on the table in front of him.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Jango warns. Ben twitches, and the glass overturns, spilling. Ben lets out an apathetic sigh and turns the glass back upright. “You’re drunk enough as it is.”

Jango has no way of calling Obi-Wan, and Shmi, who’d finally started answering Bens comm when Jango kept calling out of sheer spite for the absence on the other end, was even farther away than Jango was.

Seriously, why the fuck was Ben on fucking Tatooine? Of all shitholes in the galaxy?

“Can you contact Obi-Wan?” Jango presses.

“ _He’ll be angry with me. I’m supposed to be getting better, not… not falling apart. I need to do better. He’ll be angry. He_ should _be.”_

“Since when am I the – _vod_ , sometimes you have to let yourself fall the fuck apart before you can pull your shit together. You’ve told me that more than once. You’ve been there while I did it.” Jango mutters. “Can you contact Obi-Wan?”

“ _I'm here_.” Obi-Wan bends into view like he stepped out of fucking nowhere, scowling prissily at his surroundings and then worriedly at the older man, who won’t look back at him.

“Why are neither of you in _beskar’gam_?” Jango growls, exasperated. They both give him chastised looks, and the similarity between the two is getting painful, though Obi-Wan looks like a slightly shaggy pup whereas Ben is more of a beaten old dog. Both of them have more fight and a meaner bite in them than they appear to.

“ _We were maintaining a low profile_ ,” Obi-Wan answers succinctly, crossing his arms as he turns on his master with a sharp look. “ _This is not how we handle our fears, or our pain_.”

“ _It seemed to be working pretty well_ ,” Ben sulks bitterly.

Obi-Wan grabs Ben by the shoulder and lowers himself till they’re eye to eye whether Ben wants to be or not. Guess Ben was right. He’s made the _jet’ika_ angry.

Obi-Wan takes a breath, lips parting as if to speak, and then he doesn’t. His eyes glitter, and his brow furrows, and then he stands upright and disappears from holo-view, though Jango can watch Ben’s eyes track the padawan all the way until he comes back into view again, plunking a ceramic jug of what was no doubt cheap, harsh liquor on the table. He takes his masters cup, fills it, takes a grimacing swallow for himself, and then slides the glass over.

“ _Jet’ika_ -“ Jango warns, “- that is not a good idea.”

“ _Oh, I know_ ,” Obi-Wan replies, still staring at his master with that same intense look in his eyes.

Ben glances between them and takes the glass, tipping it in a galling salute, and drinks.

What squirms in Jango’s gut is something sour and uneasy.

Ben sets the glass down when he’s done, giving his padawan back an equally intense look, as if daring him to do something, to say something, to get angry or fed up. Jango can see Obi-Wan’s jaw clench – the young man _is_ angry.

Obi-Wan leans forward, takes the glass, and pours again.

Jango feels like he ought to shoot somebody. Possibly Obi-Wan.

 _What are you doing, jet’ika_?

The teenager hands the glass back to his master.

“Fuck – are you just – _stop it_. Are you just going to sit there and help him relapse?” Jango snaps.

“ _I am just going to sit here_ ,” Obi-Wan says levelly. “ _until he decides he’s punished himself enough, or passes out. Whichever comes first._ ” Obi-Wan speaks to Jango, but he never breaks his gaze from Ben’s. “ _Then I’ll get him back to his bed and make sure he survives the experience. If we end up here a second time, I_ will _take you back to the Temple_ ,” he warns his master.

“ _I’m not punishing myself_ ,” Ben mutters. “ _I just…I wanted it to hurt less. I needed to_ feel _less. This has always done the job well enough_ ,” he scoffs, knowing how cheap the excuse was.

“I get it, _vod_ , I do. You know I do. But that is a _bad idea_ –“ Jango turns his glare on Obi-Wan. “– and yours is a worse one.”

The look Obi-Wan gives him in return is harsh, full of frustration and the disquiet refusal to be helpless.

“Get rid of that before he drowns, take him somewhere he can sleep it off,” Jango gives the command, “and don’t leave him alone.”

“ _I’m not going to leave him_ ,” Obi-Wan agrees, a bite to his tone that is for Ben and Ben alone. Jango shakes his head.

Ben closes his eyes in shame, bowing his head. “ _I’m sorry_.”

“We know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: I.... we just don't get nice things today. Trauma sucks, and so does recovery, but I did not realize we were gonna get this morose today.
> 
> Sorry.


	38. Chapter 38

Obi-Wan lets Ben wallow for six days, during which Ben rarely leaves his pallet, struggling first with a hangover and then with listlessness. It’s a quiet several days, and Obi-Wan diligently tends to the vaporators, and the banthas, and the cellar garden, and to his master, making sure he drinks, trying to see to it that he eats.

Mostly, they are both left to their thoughts. The padawan will step downstairs sometimes to find Ben bleeding painful emotions, working them into glass that takes no particular shape, but soaks up sorrow and bitterness and anger until it is something Ben can hold in his hands, until it is something he can physically set down, if he can muster himself to do so. Other times he’ll find Ben lying prone on his pallet, staring at the far wall with apathetic numbness, too emotionally wrung out and far away in his mind to function.

Ben sleeps poorly, terrorized by his nightmares. Obi-Wan sleeps poorly because Ben does.

Obi-Wan pauses, sometimes, staring out over the Dune Sea while he’s doing maintenance on the vaporators, or sitting upstairs in solitude so as not to intrude, and it hits him that this was Ben’s life, at one point. This provincial routine, this isolation, this misery pervasively seeping beneath all of it.

Sometimes, it makes him terribly sad.

Other times, it makes him terribly _angry_.

So angry he has to leave the hovel, to get away from it, to get away from Ben, because if he doesn’t he thinks he’ll march downstairs and shake him, scream at him, demand things of him that are unfair.

He marches out into the Dune Sea instead, letting his emotions lash out. There is nothing there to hurt but himself. He’ll pull wind and heave the sands and burn glass until the anger is spent, and then he’ll kneel in it and meditate, and center himself, and then he’ll go back.

It’s the helplessness he feels that hurts worse than anything.

When the anger leaves him, and the helplessness turns instead to fear – then he goes downstairs, and he sits beside his master, and he takes his hand.

By the seventh day, they both look rough and wounded, but on the seventh day, Ben pulls himself off his pallet and carefully collects all his mishappen lumps of glass that litter the floor around his sleeping space. Obi-Wan hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch them.

Obi-Wan doesn’t catch up with him till he realizes his master is heading out the door.

“Ben?”

Ben pauses, looking back to him.

“I’m going for a walk.” The older man says raspily, weighted down with his collection of glass. Obi-Wan stares at him, searching that shadowed blue-gaze, smudged and bloodshot with sleeplessness.

The last time Ben had gone off for a walk Obi-Wan had had to Shadow-Walk all the way to Anchorhead to track him, and found him holed up in some grimy cantina trying to drown himself in bad decisions. Then he’d had to Shadow-Walk them both back while Ben was staggering drunk.

Obi-Wan had deliberately made sure they ended up outside on his return because the older man had vomited right after. He’d expected he would.

“I’ll be back by sunrise,” Ben adds, a weak reassurance at the moment.

Obi-Wan still hesitates. “I don’t know if I should let you go,” he admits.

Ben doesn’t even wince. He just looks down briefly, with the weight of the fault of that insecurity. Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and crosses to the door, drawing Ben into a swift, crushing hug, holding him fiercely.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to let Ben go, doesn’t want to watch him walk away while he does nothing. He wants to go with him, he wants to help him, to make this better, to make this…

But he can’t. There is nothing more he can do, besides let Ben do what he needs to do for himself. Besides wait, and hope. This isn’t about him.

“Sunrise,” he agrees with a warning. Ben’s hand comes up to rest in Obi-Wan’s hair, making him feel like he’s thirteen again.

“Sunrise,” Ben vows. “I promise.” He takes a breath. “Thank you, Obi-Wan. For… for being patient.”

Obi-Wan makes an acknowledging noise low in his throat, and holds Ben a little tighter for a moment, bracing himself to let go. “Do what you need to do. I’ll be here.”

Ben’s hand falls from his hair and squeezes the nape of his neck. “I know,” he says, gratitude and relief coloring his voice.

Obi-Wan swallows tightly, and lets the man go.

~*~

Obi-Wan spends the afternoon meditating in the cellar, doing his best to clear it of the overspill of Ben’s negative emotions. He’s not as good at imbuing an impression as his master, but soothing them away is something he’s had a great deal of practice in. It is not unlike healing, in a way.

When the air feels clear, when the Force feels clear and calm, the cellar a place that could offer solace and serenity, threaded through with the green promise of growth enriched by their little garden of vegetables, he turns his focus to reaching that place of cohesion with the world.

It eludes him today. His thoughts are constantly drawn towards Ben, towards his worries, even towards Anakin, and what the future might hold for all of them.

Sighing, he gives up the attempt and just allows his body and his mind to calm for a little while, feeling his breath rise and fall, feeling his heart beat steady, feeling the energy of the world trickle and shimmer around him, through him; in the heat leaving his skin, in the taste of damp soil in the air, swirling in cycle of his breath, the air stirring gently against his presence.

When his stomach growls, he gets up and finds something to eat.

He doesn’t sleep that night – doesn’t even pretend with himself that he was ever going to. He intends to take his lightsaber down to his training spot instead, only pausing when he realizes that when he casts his senses for the crystals, that something is missing.

Not his saber, but the one… the one Ben had brought. The one that had been tucked away under his bed for as long as Obi-Wan has know him. The one from before.

It’s been a quiet note in the background of their lives for long enough that Obi-Wan had stopped noticing its particular song, but he had known that Ben brought it to Tatooine. How could he not?

He just… doesn’t know what to do with the realization that Ben had taken it with him.

 _There is nothing_ for _me to do_ , he acknowledges, after a moment of consternation.

Still, he reaches out, feeling for his masters presence, searching the Force for any warnings, for any dread.

 _Patience_ , his instincts tell him.

Obi-Wan sighs, collects his saber, and goes outside.

~*~

Ben walks deep into the Dune Sea, half stepping between the measure of his feet and the measure of evening shadows, with his clattering satchel of ill-formed glass. He walks deep into the desert, were the world seems to get bigger, where the sky seems wider and deeper as gold fades into lavender, as lavender bleeds into mauve, into deep blue, into midnight black, bursting with stars that wash the world in silver. Where the wind whips a little wilder, a little keener, a little more taunting, and the sand whispers of secrets.

He walks even when he senses the quiet lurking hunger of sarlacs, hidden in soft pools of dust, when the landscape ripples with the sinuous movement of a hunting krayt.

He walks until the question of where he is, where he is going, where he has been, matters less than the fact that he is here.

“Ek-kree-a-tat-tat-tat. Kree-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.”

A shadow flits across the light of two of Tatooine’s three moons, bright feathers flashing red even under starlight.

Ben looks up, trying to spot it in the sky, but it dips and darts among the stars, vanishing in the trails of light and darkness between them, elusive and clever. He looks around instead, at the wide plain ahead of him, at the sweeping dunes around him, and that infinite line where the desert met the heavens. This was the deep desert, one of the places time never seemed to touch, a place where the shackles of ordinary and inordinary lives did not matter and could not reach.

Ben nods to himself, and kneels.

“Kree-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.”

The bird lands, hopping a little in front of him, dark eyes shining, turning its head this way and that. It studies him for a moment, then ignores him, starting to preen.

Ben pulls off the satchel. His body aches from a week of morose inactivity, muscles twinging and pulling sorely, reminding him that he wasn’t a young man anymore. There are certain meditations and exercises of the Force that can moderate and maintain ones vigor and physical condition, but Ben hasn’t exactly been dedicated to such upkeep this past week either.

The glass lumps roll and grind as he sets the satchel aside, clinking heavily together, weighing far more on his soul than his body. Even with them just an arms length further away, it feels easier to breath. He removes his robe.

The bird turns its head this way and that, hopping a skip back.

Ben takes a breath, looks up at the stars, looks across the desert, and then looks down, at the sand in front of his knees

With nothing but his hands, he starts digging.

The bird hops closer, dark eyes shining, watching him.

Ben curls his fingers into the sand and grit, and brushes it aside, scoops it away.

He toils.

He digs, through the soft dust, through the harder grit and sharper bits of gravel, till his fingers get red and raw. He keeps digging.

The wind whips up, buffeting over his back, scattering the loose sand he’s swept aside, throwing some of it back at him. The bird hops over to his robe, pecking at a thread.

The hole he digs is as deep as his shoulder and as wide as his bucket when the stinging in his hands confirms he’s made his fingers bleed and he has to tell himself that it is enough. That there is no point in digging deeper save that if he keeps digging, he doesn’t have to stop.

He has to stop.

He has to do this.

Ben eyes the satchel, sitting in a heap on the sand, unassuming.

“Kree-tat-tat-tat.” The bird croons softly, skipping to the edge of the hole he has dug with a flash of feathers. “Kree-tat-tat-tat.”

Ben reaches over and snags the strap, dragging the bag towards him. The contents roll and collide, jarring each other, heavy and breakable. It hits his knees and he clenches his fingers into the touch fabric.

It shouldn’t be this hard.

He has spent days now on nothing but delving into the parts of himself he would rather not see and giving recognition to the fact that he wasn’t just carrying grief and guilt, but that he was angry and bitter, that he was hurt and afraid.

That he was not just heartbroken, but betrayed.

This _should_ be the easy part.

Ben moves slow, folding open the bag, watching the red bird teeter on the soft edge of the hole, never quite slipping in.

Ben draws out an orb of warped glass, more a condensed knot than a neat sphere. It seems heavier than it should be, and icy to the touch. The chill soothes the sting in his fingers, but it needles at his spirit.

Ben has done the miserable work of taking a hard look at himself, at his feelings and his motivations and what they have led him to, what they could lead him to.

He lowers the orb into the hole he has dug, and lets it go.

He loves Anakin Skywalker still. He will die loving Anakin Skywalker, the man he’d raised, the man he’d fought beside, his brother, his best friend.

He takes another knot of dark glass from the satchel, this one sharp and cracked.

That love… that love doesn’t change what Anakin did. Doesn’t change the pain he caused, the lives he took, the nightmare he allowed himself to become. That he - that he _chose_ to become.

Ben drops the orb in the hole.

One by one, he has to accept these feelings. He has to see them, and know them for what they are, if he is ever to hope of letting them go.

Ben needed to see the truth of Anakin’s fate and Anakin’s choices. He needed see the darkness he has opened himself up to by denying what could not be changed.

He had to….. he had to let that love and those memories of his loved one be tarnished, or everything about them that he has buried would poison him from the inside out, would consume him, while he was too scared and too selfish to acknowledge it.

More chunks of glass fill the hole, drenched in betrayal, in bewilderment and resent, crying out with it.

He reaches in the bag, and his hand doesn’t close on glass.

Sucking in a breath, Ben draws out the lightsaber.

To his surprise, the hilt not longer feels quite fit to his hands.

“Kree-a-tat-tat. Kree-a-tat-tat.”

The bird flutters to his knee.

He eyes the pommel, the familiar grip, the gold emitter.

Ben struggles for an even breath.

Ben has to _let go_.

He has to let go.

Not just of that golden haired knight with a cocky attitude and a shy smile, but of the man who had stood beside him – of the man Ben had been, standing beside him.

“Anakin Skywalker,” Ben tells the desert, swallowing tightly around grief, around the diminishment of dreams. “I loved him, and he hurt me. He broke my heart, and my trust, and my spirit. I am furious at him, and disappointed, and bitter at his choices.”

Anakin and Ben had been two halves of a whole, two sides of the same story, one they had ended together. Everything Ben has aimed at himself, has carried on his own shoulders, in his own heart - was not his weight alone to bear.

He cannot truly understand _why_ Anakin chose the path he did. But as much as he cherished him, as much as he needed him, as much as he loved him and wanted to protect him – Ben could not protect Anakin from himself.

Ben was many things, but as grudging as he was to accept it, the days had been long past when he was _responsible_ for Anakin Skywalker and the messes he made.

Ben turns the lightsaber in his hands, thumb on the switch.

“I _miss_ him,” Ben murmurs. “ and who I used to be. I miss who we were, when we were together, when we were at our best.”

There were a thousand goodbyes Ben had never gotten – and this was the one he’d never wanted to make.

He doesn’t ignite the lightsaber. He's not the man who wielded it anymore.

With a soft sigh, he sets it down amid the glass, and he buries it.

He pushes sand and grit back into the hole, scattering over the pile of glass.

He buries the victory that never was. That never _would have been_.

The friendships he’ll never have again.

The vain delusion that there had ever been anything more than a blurred line between their best and their worst, between their righteousness and their wrongdoing.

He buries the lies and half-truths that have barricaded him off from the worst of Anakin’s darkness – and from his own.

It’s as damning an act as it is freeing, it heals nothing, _fixes_ nothing – in a great many ways, it makes him feel _worse_ \- but it gives him the chance to heal _someday_.

To accept and resolve within himself what really happened.

To move beyond it.

Ben gives all the things he’ll never have again to the desert.

Not to be forgotten, but to be set free.

The bird flutters up to his shoulder and preens a lock of his hair – stealing a few strands while it’s at it.

Ben watches it carefully, and slowly reaches up, wondering if it will let him gentle a finger across silky feathers -

It doesn’t. It darts away, wheeling up into the stars.

He stares after it, blinking into the jeweled crown of the sky He loses himself in it for awhile, feeling the quiet depth pull at him, feeling Tatooine whisper, and the galaxy turn.

Eventually he blinks, remembering he has made a promise, and it is not one he will break. He brushes his wind-snarled hair back from his face and pushes himself to his feet.

He won’t say he doesn’t look back when he walks away. He’s not so strong as that.

But he does walk away, and every step he takes makes the tremors in his chest a little less staggering, makes the cracks in his soul feel a little less jagged.

 _Goodbye, Anakin_.

He can’t say it aloud, the words don’t make it past his breath, but he says it in his heart before he leaves the deep desert, before the world that _is_ claims him again.

Obi-Wan doesn’t wait for him to come inside, stepping out to greet him as Ben trudges tiredly up the hill to the hovel, light climbing over the horizon. The padawan greets him with a smile, bright and young and relieved.

“Ben.”

Then the young man frowns.

“Where’s your robe?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: ahhh I hope I did this justice.


	39. Chapter 39

Obi-Wan trips, clips his master with an elbow, and ends up pelted with his own trail of glass and sand.

Ben laughs at him.

Obi-Wan gives the older man a look, righting himself and twirling his saber. He needs to work on his developing form with an actual independent being to defend. He also needs to work on it with an actual opponent to fight.

For lack of options, he has Ben.

Ben drafts up a small, vaguely humanoid shape of glass for Obi-Wan to protect, with the enviable ease of a master at work, and ignites his lightsaber with a loose grace that Obi-Wan hasn’t seen in a while.

It makes the padawan grin for the challenge, and for  _ lightness _ his master carries himself with, the eagerness and command.

Obi-Wan isn’t naive enough to think that Ben is free of his darkness and his nightmares, but the older man feels recentered and steady, carrying himself as if a weight has been lifted, burning brighter and stronger in the Force as  he recovers his equilibrium following his… convalescence.

They’d tip-toed around each other for a few days after Ben… did whatever it was he’d needed to do, the both of them reluctant to test the fragility that seemed to linger in the air after something like that. But slowly, the fragility dissipated, and they stopped holding their breath for fear of breaking whatever it was that seemed so tentative and delicate.  They’ve eased back into the routine of their present lives, and now time seems to roll forward again.

“Ready to try again?” A cinnamon brow lifts, expression nearly serene, save for the glint of challenge and mischief bright in his blue-grey eyes, copper saber ignited, potent and vibrant in a way the unassuming master  usually prefers not to advertise .

Obi-Wan twists his saber, pacing in front of his ‘charge’ and uses his free hand and the Force to call his glass pearls back into motion, swirling around him almost peacefully, like satellites around a star.

Ben had been impressed when Obi-Wan first showed him the trick, pouring power into the way the Force naturally drew around a well-centered Jedi, turning those currents into something that can be corralled, something that can be cultivated and used.

They’ve discussed the technique at length since, arguing the details of how Obi-Wan actually put it into  practice. The padawan insisted he wasn’t touching the sand pearls at all, not once he’d pulled them into the current, instead merely pulling on the Force, guiding it into harmony with his movements, the way a dancer might twirl a ribbon.

“I’m drawing into the Force,” Obi-Wan tried to explain. “The Force is drawing into the world. The world is drawing into me. It’s not… direct. That would take too much divided focus and it wouldn’t work as I need it to work.”

Ben had hummed very thoughtfully, sounding not at all convinced of anything.

Obi-Wan despairs of the fact that he  _ has _ to figure out how to explain it in a way that is convincing, because there is no point in developing a new saber form if he can't teach it to anybody else.

That would be embarrassing.

“I’m ready,” Obi-Wan returns his master’s challenge, a little thrill running through his blood as they face up.

For a master of the endurance forms, Ben can be brutally abrupt when he wishes to be, and Obi-Wan has to react just as quickly, or this will be over before it starts.

His first instinct is to meet Ben head on, to catch his blade and duck around it, but he pushes past that instinct, remembering his purpose here; that he cannot let Ben get behind him, that he cannot give ground – and that he has to focus on how to approach such an attack from the philosophy and grounding of his new technique.

He pulls his blade back, and twists his body into a curl of power, letting his lightsaber skim against his masters, giving him nothing to ground against – just enough of a nudge and a threat to guide him off target, to move him around, and Obi-Wan moves with him, never still and solid enough to make a firm target. The Force enhances his speed, enhances the power behind his defense, but it is the concentrated channels flowing around him that thwart the older Jedi as much as Obi-Wan’s physical presence.

He knows Ben is going easy on him – he’d learn nothing if his master  wouldn't go easy on him, wouldn't let him work out the motions, the successes, the flaws – but he also knows that Ben’s version of easy isn’t exactly the same caliber as anyone else’s.

Ben attacks his flaws, challenges his strengths. He doesn’t even seem to mind the whipping sand and glass, even if it hits hard enough to welt when he intersects it, even if it is sharp enough to cut –

Not until Obi-Wan flickers back against his own bladework, and catches a trail in the heat of his blade, turning it glowing hot and molten.

“Ah.” Ben’s lips part, and he draws back momentarily, reassessing.

Obi-Wan presses forward, keeping a mental tether on the dummy he’s supposed to protect, making sure he doesn’t get too far away. Still, unlike Soresu’s singular defensive nature, Obi-Wan’s new form is more versatile, and, in tune with his master’s teaching, leans towards the aggressive.

Ben’s next few moves are careful, testing. He’s taken to trying to wedge his blade into Obi-Wan’s current of movement, breaking the flow he needs to maintain, striking at his core or his footwork, but Obi-Wan’s center is not in his physical balance, his grounding is not in his footwork or in his blade. His grounding is in the flow of the Force, and his center is somewhere between himself and the counterweight of the Force pulling against the push of his movement. He’s dancing with his own shadow, with the lingering imprint of himself, balanced somewhere between where he is and where he’s been. He doesn’t think Ben has quite figured out how to attack that yet.

Ben offers the younger man an impressed smile, nodding his approval.

Obi-Wan grins, feeling charged and powerful, but calm, like the eye of a storm, drawing harmony out of chaos.

Ben takes a step back, blade lowering, and a surge of blistering power drives into the padawan, striking him suddenly and brutally, like a wave crashing down, a sandstorm overtaking him, throwing him adrift.

His rhythm buckles, and Ben lunges at him with his blade.

Obi-Wan snaps forward to meet him and twists, rippling away as quickly as he came. The Force presses on him, churning like choppy waters, tossed by a turbulent wind. He staggers, heel slipping in dust, and narrows his eyes on his masters blade.

The pressure keeps coming, ceaseless, overwhelming, stronger than anything  Obi-Wan can muster  – the strength and power of a Jedi master.

Obi-Wan swallows, and surrenders to it. Ben wants to push? Fine.  _ Push _ .

Obi-Wan pulls; he lets it come, and turns into it as it is swept away. If Obi-Wan can’t build his own current, he’ll use the one Ben is offering him. Ben pushes, Obi-Wan  _ pulls _ .

They crash together, Obi-Wan letting Ben and all his power fall into him, giving him the opportunity to lash back, sweeping the copper blade aside with an undertow of Force and flickering into Ben’s guard, twisting his blade up -

They both freeze.

Obi-Wan has gotten his blade just under his master’s ear, careful not to singe his beard because he  _ knows _ that  _ will _ earn him retribution.

Ben’s blade, however, spun simultaneously into a reverse grip, his arm jerking up to keep Obi-Wan at arm’s length, the copper saber humming just below his chin.

“That is not the attack you should have gone for,” Ben chides, pulling his saber back while Obi-Wan lifts his own aside, the both of them carefully disentangling from mutually assured destruction.

“I felt it was my moment to strike,” Obi-Wan sighs.

“It was,” Ben smirks, stepping back and twirling his saber. “But you are so focused on your blade, I think you are missing the true strength of this form.” Ben uses his lightsaber to gesture to the ribbons of glass and sand still circling the padawan, the burning lines of energy still swirling around his presence.

“Discipline and control are virtuous and compelling traits. They do you a great credit,” Ben tells him, making Obi-Wan feel warm with the gentle flattery. “But you will find greater mastery comes not from simply taming power, but from knowing when to unleash it.”

Obi-Wan looks to his master, not with uncertainty but… “I could really hurt you, doing something like that.” Letting all that tightly coiled control burst, letting all that channeled power explode…

Obi-Wan has focused on controlling his space, keeping his channels within the reach of his blade, though as he grows more and more at ease with this technique, he sees how simple it would be to spin his whirlwind into a hurricane.

Simple, _doable_ , but _incredibly_ _dangerous_.

He wants to defend, not destroy.

“Had you a crueler mind, you could  _ kill _ me, doing something like that,” Ben agrees, lifting one hand to emphasize one piece of floating glass caught in Obi-Wan’s passive current, a twisted shard the length of his smallest finger, razor sharp on every edge.

Obi-Wan pales, stomach clenching tight. He’s been using sand because, well, that was what was on hand, and he had considered it best to use whatever the world might have to give him, to make the form most effective and convenient, but…

“Maybe I should practice with water instead,” the padawan suggests. “Or not use material enhancement.”

But using physical material as a part of his defense  makes it more effective, turning his reach into a shield. And that is how he’s considered it – a shield.

But Ben is right, it could so easily be turned into a weapon.

Obi-Wan bites the inside of his cheek in reluctance, because to treat the Force as a weapon goes against every lesson the temple has ever taught him.

Ben lifts his blade, gesturing that he is ready to begin again, and Obi-Wan follows slowly, thoughts turning over.

“You may choose to do so, Obi-Wan, but bear this in mind – what you build, others will expand upon. It may take them longer to advance to the idea of channeling objects within the field of this form, but it won’t remain undiscovered, not once they truly grasp the technique. Nothing is without consequences, not even our best intentions. Be mindful of that.”

Obi-Wan nods, accepting that wisdom.

_ Mastery means understanding the best aspects – and the worst. I must accept them, and own them _ .

Obi-Wan pauses and takes a step back. He disengages his lightsaber. “I think – I think I need to think, before I proceed.”

Ben looks him in the eyes for a beat before he lowers his blade. Then he smiles. “Very  _ good _ , and very well, Obi-Wan.”

~*~

By happenstance or fortune, another lightning storm builds that afternoon.

Obi-Wan’s channeling technique is based on the lightning-grounding method his master is teaching him, and in part upon a glimpse of enlightenment from his misadventures with the Force.

“I think I’m ready,” Obi-Wan says, as they’re laying the last of the vaporators down, listening to the crack and rumble from far away.

“Hm?” Ben, not being privy to his thoughts, lifts a brow in his direction, half his attention on that dark edge across the Dune Sea.

“To try guiding lightning,” Obi-Wan says, resolving himself against the shiver that still prickles down his spine at the prospect.  It is both daunting and somewhat exhilarating, that idea, and what it inherently represents – an absolute test of faith. One that can prove true or prove fatal.

There are… flaws in his current understanding of what exactly he is doing, when he traces the Force into dancing ribbons around him, lapses in his perspective that affect his achievements, that limit the strength and success of his technique.

Ben is right – we build on what we know.

And Obi-Wan’s knowledge of the technique he is building off of is incomplete, because its true purpose is unrealized, because all his practice is conditional, is blunted and made safe. Obi-Wan is playing with batteries whereas Ben’s technique was designed to bend wilder and unimaginably more powerful forces.

“Ah,” Ben replies simply. “Alright.”

~*~

Obi-Wan, at times, admires the aplomb with which Ben faces many challenges, but sometimes… sometimes,  it is absolutely infuriating how glib he can be in the face of abject insanity.

Obi-Wan stands in the arch of their open doorway, watching lightning crash down around them, flash upon flash upon flash, sound and heat flooding the air in overwhelming surges, and feels his resolve wither up.

“Ready to go for a walk?” Ben inquires cheerfully, one hand on the padawan’s shoulder.

“No,” Obi-Wan replies tersely, trying to shift back into the house only to be thwarted by that firm grip.

“Would you cross this if your friends were on the other side, and they needed you?” Ben inquires mildly, leaning in close and speaking half into his mind just to be heard.

Obi-Wan glances sharply at his master, whose lips quirk.

_ Of course he would _ .

_ Well _ , Obi-Wan thinks.  _ I suppose that is that, then _ .

He has to do it.

It doesn’t make taking that first step out of the shelter of the structure  _ easy _ , but it makes it possible.

Obi-Wan breathes in deep, slow and controlled.

It’s easy to set the Force spinning around him these days, to draw power out from his center and let it swirl into the energy of the world beyond him, clashing and then finding rhythm, twining together. He knows it’s truly one and the same, but the imagery of the perspective helps him shape the Force as he needs to shape it.

He draws on it, breathing slow and steady, gently drawing his fingers across the air, imagining a trail of light behind them, like the tail of a comet, imagining it pulling a wake that builds and builds until it carries itself in perpetuity.

It finds a path, singing around him as it dances.

They take another step out, and Obi-Wan can feel Ben’s channels, a little less kinetic and driven than his own, more like furrows in the world, like dry riverbeds waiting to be filled, than Obi-Wan’s more active currents.

Obi-Wan breathes, and teases into one of the pathways Ben has control of…

It was made to channel outside force. It accepts his all too easily and Obi-Wan experiences a momentary, prickling rush as his efforts bleed into Ben’s, tracing the way that Ben made for him, understanding instantly the differences between their approaches, between his own propellent leading and Ben’s patient, defined control.

The younger man has to stop himself from instinctively trying to wrest control back, from trying to press the channels where he wants them to go, as opposed to where they simply  _ go _ . He instead allows himself to be drawn into the path  Ben made in the world , letting his push meet and blend with Ben’s passive pull until it came all the way back around again.

It was… harder than he expected, to share that flow with another person, but at the same time it’s…. easier to maintain, once they find a balance between their individual give and take.

As easy as breathing, as familiar as doing their morning katas side by side, their independent forms falling naturally into sync.

The currents expand, though neither of them presses for it, the magnitude of  what it can do far greater than what either of them could have achieved alone –

But then, that is the Force.

_ This is what I was looking for _ , Obi-Wan thinks. This connectivity, this counterbalance, this harmony -  _ this _ is what his form is meant to be, meant to express.

He may be building it more or less on his own, but the Eighth Form, at its core, is meant to remind Jedi that they never truly fight alone, that the Force and their fellows are with them, always, and that they are stronger, that they are  _ more _ than the sum of their parts, when they are  _ together _ .

Energized and uplifted, they keep walking, Obi-Wan trying not to tense up in anticipation. He can’t hear through the storm, he can barely see through the blinding flashes and rippling heat waves – all he can do is feel.

Obi-Wan creates his paths in circles, in wide arcs and sweeping curves. Ben doesn’t. Ben’s grounding channels furrow and wind, all branching paths, teasing into the natural flow of the passive energy around them as much as possible, far more organic in form, letting energy trickle and seep in as opposed to flooding in a gush.

Obi-Wan’s technique sharpens the wandering whirls of his masters – Ben’s softens Obi-Wan’s into something less strict, something more versatile and enduring, and Obi-Wan is so caught up in the delicate artistry of experiencing those gentle changes that he almost forgets-

Lightning crashes down.

Lightning crashes down, shattering the world –

And  _ catches _ .

One massive bolt of raw, untamed power cascades into the lattice they’ve built,  transforms into…into… it’s beautiful and extraordinary and over in a blink. Obi-Wan gasps and it's gone . It never touched him, he never touched it, and yet-

Ben squeezes his shoulder, amused and empathetic with understanding.

The storm isn’t over.

They do it again.

They do it again, and again, for as long as they can until the sandstorm that charged the lightning reaches the ridge, and they break back for the hovel.

It leaves Obi-Wan giddy and exhausted, flush and utterly wrung out and a little bit achy, because  Ben has let him, just once, do more than guide the lightning to ground, but channel it back up into the sky, and that was – that was –

He’s not sure if it's due to the exertion or the adrenaline, but his skin is still buzzing, even if he can barely keep his eyes open.

“You learned to do this for fun?” Obi-Wan manages to ask Ben, who is rather less affected but equally as tired, settling on his pallet for meditation.

“Meditate, padawan,” Ben chides, prodding him back upright even though he is absolutely certain that if he just let his head rest on his pillow he’d be asleep. “And it wasn’t for fun. It became a necessity. These storms can strike unexpectedly, and I had a habit of wandering away from shelter.”

“Can I nap first?”

“No,” Ben pinches him, and Obi-Wan starts and flips upright. “There is no such thing as getting that close to that much power and being unaffected. This may have been an act of nature and thus power without intent, but it was still immense, and it will still leave its traces on you. It can alter your temperament if you aren’t careful.”

Obi-Wan frowns. “Wild Force philosophy, right?”

Ben looks surprised. “How do you even know about…?”

“I’ve been reading up on ancient Jedi Temples,” Obi-Wan says, his history project having given him an interest in the evolution of the Jedi over time, in their cultural development and… and in their stranger beliefs. “There used to be temples dedicated to the study of the Wild Force, some more… extreme than others. We may not give merit to the study anymore, but a few of the practices remain. Jedi who deal frequently with natural disasters reference the teachings sometimes. How’d you learn about it?”

That is one of Obi-Wan’s favorite and least favorite questions, of late. Getting the comparisons is an enlightening but sometimes fraught experience.

“I endured a series of survival courses as a young knight, and the study of natural disasters was among them. As you said – we still reference some of those old teachings. Kindly don’t bring that particular ancient philosophy up in your Force Theory essays.”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to protest, but Ben just gives him a firm look.

“Your professors find you trying enough and I can only spend so many hours before the Council of First Knowledge explaining that your explorations into esoteric theory and contrary ethical philosophy are entirely academic and  _ not _ the sign of a budding irreverent experimentalist bound to get himself and others into trouble.”

Endeared among the academic circles of the Temple, Obi-Wan is  _ not _ .

Obi-Wan can only grin a little sheepishly. “You may want to look over my thesis assignment for Law and Morality before I submit it.”

Ben sighs and rubs at his brow. “Very well,” he mutters. “but we are  _ meditating _ now.”


	40. Chapter 40

“You seem in a mood,” Beru remarks, eyeing him up and down while he makes friendly overtures to the massif that minds the girl, giving the reptilian hound a good scratch under the chin.

“We had to pay our water taxes today,” Obi-Wan replies, a touch sourly, “right before the peak of the dry season.” The vaporators were drawing pitifully little this past couple of weeks, and by Ben’s estimate, that was the way it was going to be for a while.

Obi-Wan had grumbled a bit about the idea that Tatooine could  _ get _ any drier, and Ben had countered that it  _ did _ occasionally rain.

About twice or so a decade.

He also told Obi-Wan to be grateful they arrived  _ after _ the peak of the humid season had started to wane.

“That’s the hutts for you,” Beru spits frankly, “They can always be counted on to make lean times just that much leaner. You and your pa gonna do alright?”

Obi-Wan grins beatifically at the reminder that a great deal of people are under the impression that Ben is his father. Knowing the truth makes  _ that _ a thousand times more amusing, now that he isn’t worried that such rumors might get them in trouble with the High Council.

“We’ll do alright,” Obi-Wan assures the girl. Privately, he hopes they aren’t going to be here much longer. He doesn’t think they will be. They’ve been here half a year already. Ben’s recovery is going well, and Obi-Wan’s lightsaber form…

He’s improving every day, both in enhancing the form’s efficacy and in his understanding of the underlying elements, and the potential for further progression.

But it’s not presentable yet, it’s not  _ finished _ . He needs a partner to practice with, to truly bring it to fruition, a partner Ben  _ insists _ can’t be him – and Obi-Wan understands why; there can be no question as to whether this was Obi-Wan’s creation, or his master’s - so while it is incomplete, he’s not certain there is much more progress he can make while they are  _ here _ .

He’s just been a little reluctant to say as much to Ben. Strangely, as much as he wants to go home, part of him is reluctant to leave Tatooine.

As oppressive and difficult as this horrid place can be, they have found a bit of peace here they’d never get back with the order, back in the midst of plots and politics and missions and temple affairs.

And…

And Obi-Wan isn’t an idiot.

He  _ knows _ his master intends to knight him. The development of a lightsaber form is a knighthood-worthy achievement.

But it worries him. He’s  _ capable _ , he knows that.

He’s just not sure he’s  _ ready _ .

~*~

“Tell me about your knighting,” Obi-Wan requests, helping his master shift rubble from his ever-advancing excavation. Ben has doubled the size of the cellar already, heavy amber-colored glass pillars providing support in key places where the stone just wasn’t as stable as they’d like, another skylight and ventilation shaft opened up above. He’s working on a passageway now, working between a natural cleft in the bedrock of the ridge, before he can build another chamber where the stone softens again.

Obi-Wan doesn’t ask if his master actually has any plan for all of this. He thinks the man just needs something productive to do, and leaves him to it. It seems to help, when meditation doesn’t.

There is a flash of surprise and then pain, across the bond, before his master's draws in a breath and lets it out, breathing it away with a lifetime of practice.

“Sorry,” Obi-Wan mutters.

“Most padawans don’t have to be scared of asking their masters questions about their own training, Obi-Wan,” Ben says softly, the rue in his voice worn out.

“We’re not exactly like most,” Obi-Wan replies. Ben tips his head, acceding to that.

“My knighting was… abrupt. I never had time to think of asking then, but I’m not sure whether I was truly knighted for defeating the Sith, or because my master had died and it can be… tricky, to deal with padawans so far along in their training. One master’s standard is not another’s, and differing teaching methods can clash in such detrimental ways if not carefully considered, particularly when paired with grief, even with the best intentions from all parties. There was also, I think, some political pressure in the decision. The events surrounding my master’s death were very much in the spotlight of the Senate, and the… chancellor of the time had a keen interest in… rewarding our meritorious service and establishing a friendly relationship with the Jedi.”

Obi-Wan can tell, by the carefully controlled, crisply cultured edge his master’s tone takes, that there is much behind those words to unpack, and much Ben does not wish to. While he’s been much more open, much more willing to answer questions, he still keeps secrets. He still guards some knowledge with care, and Obi-Wan can understand that. The future is always in motion.

“My promotion might simply have served as a neat conclusion to the affair,” he sighs, rubbing at his jaw, incidentally smearing dust into his beard, “or, I don’t know, perhaps not. That may only be the musing of my paranoia. My knighting,” he moves on, “occurred within days of Qui-Gon's death, and within days of my knighting, I took Anakin as my padawan. It had been Qui-Gon’s last wish, and I wasn’t certain what would happen to the boy if the Jedi didn’t take him in. We could hardly send him back to Tatooine, which left him effectively orphaned.”

Ben shakes his head. “I moved so quickly from one stage to another and beyond that it didn’t truly feel like the achievement it should have been. I’m not sure if it would have been easier or more difficult, had I not had Anakin to focus on.”

“Did you feel ready, though? Not for a padawan, obviously - that was ridiculous - but… to be a Jedi Knight?” Obi-Wan asks.

Ben looks down, thoughtful but troubled.

“No,” Ben replies, looking back up to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes, “but I stopped allowing myself to think so very quickly. I  _ had _ to be ready, because I  _ was _ a Jedi Knight.”

Obi-Wan nods, accepting that, and Ben offers a wan smile. “Besides, at least I was older than Anakin had been when it was his turn. I’ve often felt he was knighted before  _ either _ of us were ready, and he’d only been free of a braid for a few months before he was assigned a padawan of his own. I always did suspect, however, that the Council had decided Anakin needed a padawan more than a padawan needed Anakin. I think they were hoping that teaching another might temper him.”

Obi-Wan can’t believe it.

“A grandpadawan?  _ Who _ ?” Of everything his master has shared and could share, he left  _ this _ part out?

“Ah-“ Ben hesitates, and Obi-Wan isn’t having it.

He  _ wheedles _ . “Ben, Ben, you  _ have _ to tell me. Who were they? Did we have a good relationship?”

Ben’s eyes go soft. “We did, for a while. She was… she was truly a bright light in an otherwise darkening time. Her experiences, however, were… more difficult than they should have been. In the end, I think I was glad she had…” he shakes his head, trailing off. “She was young, she was still figuring out who she was, and what her place in the galaxy ought to be, but… regardless of where her path took her, she embodied the best of us. She would have been a magnificent Jedi knight, and I was so very proud of her.”

“Ben,” Obi-Wan tugs on his sleeve, delighted even as an ache pulses in his chest, understanding that the events of Ben’s past meant her story no doubt had the same sad ending, “what was her  _ name _ ?”

“You can’t try and determine her future just because I tell you one possible way it might have gone,” Ben chastens him, pinning him with a look. “It is not our right to determine her fate for her. Just because she was once my grandpadawan doesn’t mean-”

“Ben!” Obi-Wan grabs him by the shoulders. “I would never force her path, but I  _ want _ to  _ know _ .”

“Ahsoka Tano,” Ben concedes, his voice warm around the name.

Obi-Wan says it back to himself. “ _ Ahsoka Tano _ .” It sounds familiar, and that excites him, but he doesn’t press his master for more than that.

One thing, however, puzzles him. “The Council  _ assigned _ Anakin a padawan?”

Ben sighs. “At the time, that had become the practice. Not for every pair, but… ever-increasing demands for our services meant we needed more Jedi to fill them, and masters and knights often ended up too busy on assignments to properly assess the initiates for potential padawans. The policy regarding age limits was eventually relaxed for initiates of a certain caliber, and when the Council felt it was right to do so, they assigned them to masters they believed would be suitable.”

“When did  _ that _ happen?”

“Long after it could have been of use to you or myself, Obi-Wan,” Ben replies, correctly guessing the root of his complaint. Obi-Wan minds his temper. It’s utterly moot now regardless, he supposes.

He is glad their lives are different. That they will be different still.

Obi-Wan mulls over what he’s been told. He’s not sure the answer helps him any, but it does explain some things.

He does not  _ like _ Master Jinn, but the man was his master’s master. He can’t imagine-

“It was  _ that _ Sith,” Obi-Wan blurts out, something snapping suddenly into clarity, “The one on Chandrila, the one who killed your master – that was  _ him _ , wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Ben admits tersely, expression tightly controlled even as Obi-Wan searches his eyes with a look.

“ _ Ben _ .”

Obi-Wan cannot express what he feels at the moment, at the realization.

“Ben,” he repeats.

Ben looks at him, gaze unreadable, the edges of his expression hardening.

Obi-Wan is more grateful than ever, that he managed to save Master Qui-Gon’s life, if not his…

He managed to save Qui-Gon Jinn’s life. Looking at Ben, that meant more than he could probably guess.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Obi-Wan finally says, the only thing he feels like he really can say. “How you can walk this path twice and not…” he shakes his head.

“We do, Padawan, what we must,” Ben replies, sighing.

~*~

The wind whips at his clothes, whistling around his blade. He can hear the distant shrieking of womp-rats, the hunting bay-howls of a pack of wild anoobas.

His feet glide on the dust, his blade turns into the wind, and the world dances with him. The stars blossom against the setting of the second sun, and Obi-Wan can feel… the sky, calling softly; the rippling sands, the hidden things just beneath the surface, bones and eggshells, life and death, the bedrock, and deeper; the blood-thrall of the distant hunt, the sharp threat-fear of the hunted; he can trace the wind, in all its fickleness and inevitability; the world spans out, in every part of him and he in every part of it.

He does not control it. It does not control him.

They just exist, cohesive and uncontested.

His blade sweeps, and the wind curls. He steps back, and the ground meets his heel. His heart beats, and the stars burn.

A shudder rumbles through them, reshaping the desert, reshaping the world; indomitable power and patience, pure will and sharp, predatory intent. A roar shakes the air, and everything else falls quiet. Obi-Wan draws back – not from the kill, but from the dominion of the one who made it. Obi-Wan may be one with his surroundings, with his existence and all that encompasses it, but some things were  _ more _ than that, and he would be wise not to trespass.

As his master told him – there are powers and entities of power out there, and they do what they will for their own purposes.

Worry, the reminder of his own mortality and fragility, drops him out of focus, and the world becomes a separate thing again, and he something small and individual in its midst.

The great krayt dragon shifts back beneath the desert.

He lowers his blade, the green burning bright in contrast with the desert sands, and draws in a deep breath, looking out over the Dune Sea. He bows to it, because it never hurts to be respectful, and then turns back towards the hovel, using his sleeve to wipe sweat from his brow.

Ben steps out as Obi-Wan comes up the hill, the older man looking puzzled. “I was just about to join you,” he says.

He’s got dust in his hair and on his clothes, a dirt smudge on his face, from his work in the cellar. He smells faintly of scorched stone and damp soil and spiced tea, when the breeze pulls past him. He looks at ease, and as though he’d rather been looking forward to the activity.

Obi-Wan smiles. “I got impatient,” he says, “But I was thinking… Can we just free spar? I’ve done nothing but work on form eight for weeks.”

“Oh,” Ben replies loftily, “I think I can indulge you.”


	41. Chapter 41

Qui-Gon has never felt so wretchedly humble, so uncertain and clumsy in his life, as he does in the middle of a closed salle, hours after the night bell, having crept from his quarters with a furtive sort of shame to come here.

He holds his lightsaber in his hand.

It doesn’t feel warm to his touch, doesn’t cast his senses into bloom, doesn’t sing, quiet and familiar against his spirit.

Or, if it does, he can’t tell.

All he can tell is that the hilt is hard durasteel, that the grooves and seams of it are familiar, but that they feel blunt and chill in a way they never have. It feels like a tool, like something no more circumspect than a hydrospanner, as opposed to an extension of his soul.

He swallows tightly, his palms clammy. He rubs his thumb beside the trigger, trying to will himself into igniting the blade, trying to move forward, knowing that when he does the absence of the Force will cut all the more keenly. Trying to brace himself for that.

His heart trembles in his chest. The night air is cool, the lights low, and he feels foolish.

This will be disappointing.

He will find himself disappointing. He already does.

But he has a padawan, and she wants so badly for him to try.

His healers tell him to try.

One of his friends has certainly  _ demanded _ that he do so.

He wonders if any of them truly understand how difficult that is. How numb he feels, how cold and dull the world seems.

How can he hope to live up to the title of a Jedi master now?

He lowers the lightsaber hilt, laying one hand over his face, shamed and tired.

This isn’t the first time he’s done this, crept out at night, trying to bring himself to light the blade, trying to bring himself to do  _ something _ that will make his padawan proud of him. He has failed, and failed deeply. As a man, as a Jedi, as a teacher.

This is just… perhaps this is what he deserves, for those failures. Perhaps this is the Force fulfilling justice.

“It’s unbecoming to wallow,” he mutters to himself, and then huffs, feeling that he sounds far too much like his former master.

To his chagrin, he is and ever will be the former padawan of Master Yan Dooku. The man had certainly left his mark.

_ ‘Straighten up,’ _ he could hear his master snap,  _ ‘Force be willing, some day, Qui-Gon, you might learn the difference between pride and dignity. You’ve far too much of the former, and an appalling lack of the latter.’ _

Qui-Gon lets his hand slide from his face, and takes a breath.

_ ‘Pull your head up.’ _

That one earned him a flick to his brow often enough.

‘ _ Shoulders back. _ ’ A flat hand pressed between his shoulder blades. Master Dooku had never been a demonstrative man, nor a particularly tactile one, but there had been days, very early in Qui-Gon’s apprenticeship, where he had gotten then impression that the man’s hands ached for wanting to haul the gangly boy before him upright and into posture.

It had never been enough to do a thing right, not for his master. It had to be done decorously as well. Qui-Gon had come to loathe every lesson in comportment.

_ ‘Stand like you  _ aren’t _ about to tip over. Goodness, Qui-Gon.’ _

That, that dissatisfied little puff.  _ ‘Goodness, Qui-Gon, really?’ _

Of all the expressions, and the cold corrections, and the pinched looks, that one, full of impatience and disappointment, had always dug under his skin, made him feel itchy and clumsy and useless. Maybe because it was also what Master Dooku would say when he was being kind; rare as those times were – usually when Qui-Gon was either particularly injured or particularly emotionally upset.

_ ‘Goodness, Qui-Gon, really?’ _ His hand would land warm on the padawan's shoulder, and his eyes would soften just a bit, voice touched with concern.

Qui-Gon can’t remember the last time that happened. Certainly long before adulthood.

“Goodness, Qui-Gon, really,” he tells himself, pulling his head up, his shoulders back, widening his stance into something a little better balanced. He looks at the lightsaber hilt in his hands, thumb brushing the switch.

He presses it, and the green blade bursts forth, humming and brilliant.

He can feel the energy of the power cycle reverberating through his palms, feel the heat the blade casts.

But that is all he feels from it, and the disappointment is heavy and hard to accept. Staring at the blade hurts his eyes, and they water.

Qui-Gon blinks, gritting his teeth, and lifts his arms into the very first form he ever learned, the most basic of Shii-Cho stances. Then the second, then the third. The blade doesn’t waver, his balance doesn’t fall off kilter, the motions don’t feel incomplete – he’s been wielding a lightsaber for more than forty years. His body knows this with as much familiarity as it knows how to breathe.

He makes it through five forms, before his hands shake too much, and his breathing is completely uncontrolled. It takes everything he has not to toss the lightsaber across the room.

He ends up dropping it anyways, when he tries to clip it to his belt. It rolls across the salle floor, gleaming in the low light.

Qui-Gon feels mocked and humiliated.

He considers just leaving it, turns away to walk out and do so, but catches his reflection on the mirrored observation wall, and halts.

He swallows at the image he sees there – a man haggard and tired and too old to be this  _ petulant _ .

_ What does it matter? _

He still almost leaves.

Let a droid find his saber. Let it wind up in a garbage chute for all he cared. It is as worthless as the man who built it.

He wouldn’t care.

Or at least, he would convince himself he doesn’t.

But he knows without a doubt that Sian would. His padawan would care. She would be hurt, and she would hide it, and she would, without a doubt, go digging through a garbage dump just to find the wretched thing if she had to.

Qui-Gon turns around, walks across the salle, and picks it back up.

~*~

The iridescent eyes of his devaronian padawan stare at him solemnly, making it exceedingly difficult not to be self-conscious.

The third time he finds himself picking up his teacup and failing to drink out of it, he finally huffs and acquiesces.  _ “What?” _ he pleads, hoping she’ll blink.

She looks down at the table, picking at some mar on the surface with one darkly painted nail. “Are things… Are things going well with your Soul Healer?” Sian inquires, with unusual hesitance.

Qui-Gon narrows his eyes. “Have you done something you’re concerned may upset me?”

“No – not recently.”

She’s honest about it, at least.

Still, he’s dissatisfied. “Why do you ask?” he answers her question for question.

Her gaze flicks back up, and she chews on her lip for a moment. “I know you haven’t been sleeping. That you’ve been leaving in the middle of the night, and…” her eyes pinch, nose crinkling delicately. “You cut your hair.”

He doesn’t need that pointed out to him, he’s reminded every time he turns his head, and the bottom edge tickles his neck.

Qui-Gon takes a breath, clears his throat, peers at her, and then picks up his teacup to avoid having to say something. He cannot stand to admit that he had… that there had been a mishap, in his attempts to retrain himself with a lightsaber, without being able to feel the Force guiding him.

He hasn’t yet confessed that he is attempting to retrain himself with his lightsaber, that he is making the effort. He doesn’t want her to know until he feels like he’s actually achieved something.

If there is anything to achieve with it at all.

“I cut my hair,” he repeats.

She flushes a little, her tan going darker under her black freckles and that fine fuzz of peachy fur. “Well, I mean, it looks good, it’s just, erm, I’m not saying it doesn’t look good, it’s just….”

For someone so talented with words, his padawan could occasionally be so terribly awkward.

“Sian.”

“Master Tahl said you haven’t cut your hair like that in more than twenty years and it seems concerning,” she blurts out.

Qui-Gon frowns. “Does Tahl not… like my hair like this?”

Sian holds up her hands. “I am not saying that,” she says carefully, making Qui-Gon frown harder, “I am saying that she  _ really _ liked it when you wore your hair in a tail.”

Which he rarely ever did, but he considers that  _ had _ he done so more often, he might not have needed the haircut.

“I see,” he remarks neutrally.

“What  _ I _ am saying,” Sian emphasizes, “is that I want to make sure you’re doing okay. I thought – I thought we were doing better...” Her voice goes soft and hesitant, and he is reminded that for all Sian is so strong, and has been so very brave and stubborn in the face of this entire situation, she is still a teenager, and she is not emotionally invulnerable.

“I’m doing my best,” Qui-Gon tells her, voice dry and thinner than he’d like.

She stares at him, and then offers a small, tight smile. “Alright.”

“You make it easier,” Qui-Gon confesses, letting the words out of his mouth before he can think that admitting as much is too pitiable to be borne.

Sian sucks in a startled breath, eyes going wide, making her look exactly as young as she is, and then she looks a blink away from crying.

Which is  _ not _ what he wants.

Qui-Gon clears his throat awkwardly and looks away, giving her a moment to… collect herself.

He pretends not to hear her sniffle.

“I’m – doing my best,” she replies, tone chipperly bright and a bit wobbly. Qui-Gon nods, still too discomfited to look back at her. He gulps at his tea.

~*~

His heart pounds too heavily, hands slick with clammy sweat, his focus bright and static on the edges, as blade meets blade.

He’s never felt  _ afraid _ of a lightsaber before, but he can’t stop second-guessing, can’t push from his mind the fact that without his sense of the Force, without it’s warning and guidance, the slight mistake-

His stomach tightens, and Qui-Gon can feel that burning-cold again, the indescribable pressure on his lungs, followed by waves and waves of fire, of gasping pain-

“Qui-Gon.” Mace steps backs, disengaging his saber, and Qui-Gon blinks sweat from his eyes, trying to regain the present moment, and not-

“Qui-Gon.” Mace gentle comes around his side, avoiding the saber that is held stiff in his hands, and lays a palm on Qui-Gon’s arm. “Be at ease, friend.”

He places his other hand over Qui-Gon’s, warm over Qui-Gon’s white knuckled, bloodless fingers, gently pushing his saber to a lowered position. “Qui-Gon.”

Qui-Gon can  _ feel _ himself calming, though he can’t sense Mace’s gentling presence and efforts the way he ought to be able to.

The green blade winks out, and Qui-Gon shudders, finally lowering it completely as Mace’s hand falls away. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Think nothing of it,” Mace replies, guiding him away from the center of the small training salle and off to a resting bench. “I am grateful you trusted me to assist you, the hour notwithstanding.”

Qui-Gon chuffs a little. Yes, it was the middle of the night cycle, but…

Qui-Gon couldn’t bear to face this during the day, couldn’t bear to come here, and fail at this, and then have to walk past his fellow jedi in shame.

Mace hands him a towel, and Qui-Gon mops his brow. Truthfully, they haven’t exerted themselves all that much, careful as they both were being, but tense fear and adrenaline worked their havoc on the body and made everything twice as draining.

It did not take much evaluation to determine that any of the advanced forms were beyond him, without his being able to grasp and perceive the Force. What remained for an able swordsman were the basics of Shii-Cho, and the precise, more economic disciplines of Makashi and Soresu.

If he can overcome not only the wound of his disability, but the lingering trauma of the near fatal experience which led to it.

Mace waits patiently for him to gather himself, for his breathing to even out and settle.

“You might consider,” he suggests, “seeing about applying yourself to the study of Teräs Käsi. Master Bondera is an adept practitioner, and it  _ was _ developed for those unable to perceive the Force.”

Qui-Gon gives him a furrowed look. “Learning such a thing at my age?”

Mace barks a laugh. “You’re hardly  _ decrepit,  _ Qui-Gon Jinn. Your prime isn’t yet behind you. You can, in fact, learn new tricks.  _ At your age,” _ the Korun snorts.

Qui-Gon must chuckle a little, at his friend’s playful scoffing.

“I feel older,” he admits, after.

“Everyone does, when they’ve suffered,” Mace says sincerely, shifting his knee against Qui-Gon’s, bridging a point of contact to provide support, provide warmth and grounding. He’s never been a particularly tactile person – many Jedi aren’t, as sensitive as they already are to the influence and presence of others – but without the Force, he finds he not only minds it less, but that it brings him great comfort. “You have suffered, Qui-Gon. No one begrudges you that, nor what it takes to recover.”

Qui-Gon sighs, lowering his head. “I sense a  _ however,” _ he remarks dryly.

Mace offers a rueful smirk.  _ “However,” _ he teases, “those of us that care for you – and we care for you a great deal, stubborn and mulish as you can be – do expect you to recover, Qui-Gon Jinn. We will allow nothing else, you understand?” Mace leans over, wrapping his fingers over Qui-Gon’s wrist, “this does not get to be what defeats you.”

“And you get to decide that?” Qui-Gon mutters, throat pulling tight.

Mace looks back at him with rich brown eyes and lifts an imperious brow. “We do.”

As always, Mace has a witty knack for pulling amusement out of any of Qui-Gon’s admittedly terrible moods, and the older man lets out another puff of a chagrined chuckle.

“Alright,” Qui-Gon nods, laying his other palm over Mace’s grip on his wrist and giving it a squeeze.

“Excellent,” Mace nods back, releasing him. “Does that mean I can go back to bed now?”

It’s Qui-Gon’s turn to lift a brow. “I apologize for continuing to interrupt your beauty sleep, Councilor,” he remarks dryly, and then takes a breath, growing a touch more somber as his fingers return to his lightsaber, “but I was hoping we could try one more time.”

Mace blinks, and then smiles, the unreserved expression warm and bright, much more like the young man he had been when the two of them first met and a young knight decided he rather  _ liked _ the company of the respected but quite contrary Master Jinn.

“Certainly we can,” he agrees easily.


	42. Chapter 42

Obi-Wan is walking back along the ridge, a container of milk from the banthas strapped to his back, sloshing merrily, when a sand-adder strikes from a cleft of rock and shadow.

His lightsaber is in his hand and lit in a flicker-quick instant, separating a triangular head from a long brown body.

The body thrashes on the sand before falling still. Obi-Wan clips his lightsaber to his belt.

He leaves the head in the sand. The rest he takes, having gotten used to eating snake. He bends to pick up the body, and he swears these snakes get bigger every time he sees one, this one a rope as long at his leg and as thick as his wrist.

Dark blood spots the sand.

He stares at it, the scales and the flesh beneath still warm in his hands. He thinks about – about that flicker quick movement, a quick and precise and thoughtless dispatch.

He drags his eyes away from the sight and walks.

He has been... reflecting deeply, these last few days, upon his own capability for aggression and violence. Upon who he is, and who he wants to be, and how different those two might be. Upon whether or not he believes he is truly ready to bear the mantle of a Jedi Knight.

Ben had told him to be mindful.

He goes back to their hovel, stores the milk, cleans the snake for cooking, and scrubs himself up. A dry wash doesn’t cut it, so he retreats to the ‘fresher and allows himself a half cup of water to clean up with. He pats down his face with a dampened cloth in a brief indulgence before scrubbing at the blood lingering around his fingernails.

Obi-Wan killed the sand-adder without much thinking about it. He’s done it many times now, as prevalent a hazard as they were. They struck at him, and they were dangerous and could kill him. Perhaps they had been startled, or territorial, or just hungry.

He struck in turn, just as swiftly, just as lethal.

It wasn’t wrong to do so, but he thinks… if he’d done the same thing at say… the age of ten, he probably would have cried. He certainly wouldn’t have been as rote and calm about picking it up afterward, gutting it, cleaning it, and then knowingly eating it.

As he has grown, as he has learned more of violence, seen more violence, and adapted his capability for violence. His acceptance of it and tolerance for it has shifted and changed and grown as well. Not consciously, not deliberately, but in the natural way that these things do.

This is just a small measure of it, a glimpse at how easy it is to simply forget that what he now sees as a necessity, a base matter of survival and subsistence, he once would have called cruelty.

Neither perspective is incorrect.

They are just different perspectives.

Obi-Wan looks at himself in the tarnished mirror, and studies his own face. He’s getting a little scruffy again, fine whiskers budding along his jaw, some so pale they were almost invisible, others faintly red. His hair is long enough to be considered unruly, windswept and sun-bleached to a rosy gold, his skin is reluctantly tanned, and less reluctantly freckled. His shirt is loose and simple, sand-beaten and worse for wear.

Aside from his unkempt braid, he looks very little like the Jedi he expects himself to be. He looks like a simple farmer’s son.

And that is not who he is. Not  _ what _ he is.

Obi-Wan pulls his toiletries from the ’fresher shelf. He yanks out the tie on his braid and loosens it with his fingers until it unravels. He combs through the tangles of his hair, sweeping it back into a proper nerf-tail, trimming his fringe and shaving his face.

He reties the braid, working the strands back together neat and even and tight. He ties the end where it brushes his shoulder and studies his reflection.

_ There,  _ he thinks.  _ I look more like myself. _

_ Like a Jedi. _

Obi-Wan stares at the image.

When he was a youngling, before he ever met men like Ben Naasade, and Jango Fett, and Jai Sheelal, before he adopted the Mandalorian culture and studied under the Witches of Dathomir, he thought he knew what it meant to be a Jedi, thought he knew what was right and what was wrong, good and evil, light and dark.

Today he thinks long and hard about what makes a Jedi, about whether a Jedi should be without darkness, or should be able to look at themselves and see their darkness for what it is.

For most of his life, Obi-Wan has shied from the idea of violence, from damage and death – but those things  _ are _ . They happen. They are a part of the world – and part of him, what he’ll face, what he’ll  _ do _ .

He has to know himself.

_ Nothing is without consequences, not even our best intentions. _

He has to know who he is.  _ Accept _ who he is, not who he thinks he  _ ought _ to be, or  _ wants _ to be, or  _ intends _ to be; no matter how difficult it is or how shameful it may feel.

If he is being honest with himself, he will accept that it is no accident that the saber form he developed is as lethal as it is protective.

It is not only a remark on his capabilities, but a remark on his instincts, his training, and his desires.

Obi-Wan Kenobi is not – he is not the Jedi he once thought he should be.

He can’t find it in himself to forsake violence, to condemn anger, to swear destruction and death are utterly  _ wrong _ , to say, with a clear conscience, that to be dark is to be  _ evil _ .

To do so would be to denounce too many of the people he cares for, too many of his friends and teachers, too many of the experiences he’s faced and the lessons he’s learned.

To do so would be to lie to himself, because the  _ truth _ is that he carries all of these things within him, just as much as he embraces compassion, as he strives to offer forgiveness and make peace, as he works to nurture and heal, and embraces the light.

_ I am not without darkness. _

One of Ben’s very first lessons has followed Obi-Wan all this way, given substance and nuance by every lesson after;  _ Darkness is half of life, as sadness is half of joy. _

Jango Fett, Adonai Kryze, Satine – all of Mandalore had taught him that darkness can be either embraced or overcome, but not eliminated.  _ From suffering comes compassion; from cruelty, mercy; from violence, peace. _

He has seen, with Khagan Jai Sheelal, with the Kaleesh and the Yam’rii and the Trade Federation, that the nature of darkness, of  _ evil,  _ is a precarious, elusive thing. There are shades upon shades of it, and not all of it what it seems. The warlord had said it so clearly on Chandrila;  _ “I have been observing, Dai Khagrah, and this I have seen; Far more blood is there spilled by what is done in these  _ **_grand_ ** _ rooms by such  _ **_pleasant_ ** _ people than in any field of war upon which I have ever been, or by any weapon I have ever wielded.” _

Even the foundations of the ideology of light and dark are not what he once thought they were.

_ Life is precious, _ the Jedi taught.

_ Yes,  _ Dathomir had shown him.  _ But Death is precious too. _

Obi-Wan has had his commitment to the Jedi Order tested; by his love for Satine, for Mandalore, for a cause that didn’t have dread creeping around every edge, for a people whose future seemed so bright – not dwindling, not threatened by a malevolent, unseen hand. His want of a life with her, a future with her, it pulls at him still. It always will, and he knew that the moment she made him swear not to break his vows for her.

He had his faith tried and twisted; shaken by the damning report he’s had to write, divided by the culture he’s taken as his own… but tarnished and strained most severely by the treatment he and his master had received at the hands of the Reconciliation Council, where their actions  had seemed to the young padawan a declaration that they cared more about whether or not Ben was a darksider than about whether or not he was going to survive his injuries; more about whether or not he had been training Obi-Wan to be a darksider than about whether or not the fourteen-year old boy was going to lose the most important person in his life.

If Ben hadn’t pulled through, or if the council had separated them permanently… Obi-Wan thinks he would have left. He’d have gone back to Fett and this time not returned. It had already been clear to him that no other master would have him, and he would have wanted, at that point, no other master.

Obi-Wan laughs at himself and lowers his head.

That right there should tell him more of himself than anything.  He has sworn he is a peacekeeper, but he admired none so much as the men who have raised him for war.

He could feign naivety and claim he isn’t sure what kind of Jedi that makes him-

But he knows what kind of Jedi he is. He is  _ Jetii Manda. _

_ My faith is not unshakeable. My forgiveness is not limitless. My compassion is not absolute. I’m good, but I’m not faultless, I am not without fear, I am not without anger, I am not without darkness. _

Nothing and no one is. That is not wrong, it is not a crime. It just  _ is. _

Even for the Jedi.

There are no absolutes.

_ I want to be a peacekeeper, a diplomat, a scholar. _

And he  _ is _ .

_ But like my master before me, I  _ **_am_ ** _ a warrior; I am skilled in combat, and I take pleasure in it. I am strong and capable of great violence. _

He developed Form Eight to provide a powerful defensive capability, and to introduce a style of engagement which actually favored teamwork and unity among multiple Jedi in combat. He developed it to give them a fighting chance against the threat of the Sith.

He believes he will succeed in doing so – and in doing so, he will also have created one of the most devastating Force-assisted forms ever introduced to the Temple.

_ Unintentionally. _

His first reaction, when Ben had made him look at his creation and see it for what it was, had been to shy back, to deny it.

But he has poured every ounce of his tenacity and every lesson he has ever learned into its shaping; he cannot treat it as if it is not the culmination of the best of his passions and the strictest of his disciplines and the fiercest elements of his heart, as if it is not proof that what he has been taught he is capable of mastering.

_ This is what I am capable of. _

And it was proof that his best could so easily become his worst.

_ So I must own the worst of myself, _ he thinks.  _ Because what I do, with the worst of myself, is what will define the best of me. _

Obi-Wan turns away from the mirror and steps back out into the main room, his fingers trailing to the hilt of his lightsaber. He tips his head back with a chagrined smile, a connection dawning, a realization.

_ I know this lesson, don’t I? _

He unclips his saber from his belt, power crackling against his palm as the crystals within croon and hum in harmony with his heartbeat and the Force that flows through him.

_ Your lightsaber is your life, _ the masters say,  _ and your responsibility. _

It is a metaphor, one that takes most younglings several years to stop blinking owlishly at or rolling their eyes at and start truly trying to figure out.

Like their lightsabers, Jedi are powerful and  _ dangerous.  _ A lightsaber is without doubt a weapon, one of the most lethal weapons in the galaxy.

And yet.

Most Jedi, armed with one of the most dangerous weapons in the galaxy from childhood to pyre, never take a life with it, never lash out in anger, or fear, or use it as a threat to bully. They face crime, and war, and deadly threats, riots and kidnappings, assassination attempts and conspiracies, and seek no retribution.

What matters is not that it is a weapon.

What matters is what the Jedi  _ do _ with it.

With their lightsaber.

With their lives.

_ With this too, _ Obi-Wan thinks of his lightsaber form, and all it represents; he curls his fingers around his saber and lifts it, till the casing brushes his lip. He smiles against it, and breathes out something like relief, feeling something difficult and intractable lifting away from his spirit.

Obi-Wan Kenobi is not the Jedi he once thought he should be.

_ I am just myself. _

_ And that is all I can be. _

He is not the Jedi he once thought he should be – and he never will be.

Because the Jedi he once thought he should be is an ideal beyond reach.

Ben comforted him once with something his own master had once told him. So, from the mouth of Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan finds absolution.

_ A Jedi is not who we are, but what we strive to be. _

That is all he can do. All he can ever do.

He is just old enough and trained enough and sure enough now to know  _ how _ to do it.

_ The learning, in truth, goes on forever. _

To  _ be _ a Jedi is an endless journey towards something greater, but to  _ act _ as a Jedi – that he  _ is _ capable of.

That he is ready for.

And that is all, really, that his master, that the order, that the calling of the Jedi, ask him to do.

To be ready for knighthood is to be ready to swear that he  _ will _ do it; no matter the challenges, the dilemmas, the obstacles, the persons or politics involved; no matter his emotions or attachments, no matter the danger or risk.

Ben steps up from the cellar and crosses his arms, lifting a brow at Obi-Wan standing there and grinning like a fool, clutching his lightsaber to his face.

Obi-Wan feels his grin loosen into something more settled, something easy and content, at the sight of the older man. Ben’s teasing look settles in turn, as he studies the padawan thoughtfully, with quiet pride that bleeds to and from Obi-Wan, who at the moment feels utterly settled in his place in the world, who feels at peace with it.

“I am proud of you, Obi-Wan,” Ben says softly, the feeling running deep and burning brightly, tinged with melancholy and gratitude, relief and a helpless, fierce sense of love.

Obi-Wan ducks his head and lowers his hands, absorbing the older man's regard like a tree soaking in sunlight, enriched down to the roots with golden warmth. He takes a breath before moving, clasping his hands over the lightsaber he’s holding, looking up, and bowing respectfully.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan murmurs, the words meant to the bottom of his soul. “Master,” he adds, for the first time since Ben told him the truth, and for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: I rewrote this chapter 3 times. Fingers crossed that the end result actually makes sense.


	43. Chapter 43

Most of their water, they drain into barrels and deliver to their Tusken neighbors, who throw a feast in celebration of the gift and gift them with talismans of carved japor and marble sized krayt pearls strung on a tassel. Obi-Wan’s tassel is dark green, the pearl a bright amber. Ben’s is a dark blue, the pearl more golden. They both tie them to their lightsabers, the adornments small enough to do so.

The Tusken send-off is rowdy.

Obi-Wan gives most of their food-stuffs to the Jawas, save the remaining dry rations which would keep for years. Those Ben stores in an airtight crate in the cellar, along with their vaporators and the simple furnishings from the house. The live plants from their underground garden get carefully packed into the container on the back of the speeder.

They seal the cellar completely, and then close up the hovel.

“Should we sell it, or give the deed to the Whitesuns?” Obi-Wan inquires, looking at the paths they’ve worn around the place that the sands will erase within the season, watching the wind blow over the Dune Sea and whistle through the rocky crags higher on the ridge.

“I think we’ll let the Whitesuns know they’re free to use the place, to make sure it’s looked after, but I rather think I’ll save the deed for Shmi.”

Obi-Wan gives the older man a look. “For Shmi,” he repeats.

Ben offers him a smile, bordering on a smirk. “She has plans to aid her people, Obi-Wan. It is our privilege to help her in any way we can.”

“I’m not arguing, I’m just…” Obi-Wan shakes his head and snorts. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

Ben smirk grows more pronounced and he reaches over, pausing only a little before tugging on Obi-Wan’s nerf tail.

Obi-Wan swats his hand away, but can’t help reaching behind his ear.

_ “The councilors are going to say this is cheating, you know,” Ben had said. _

_ Obi-Wan grinned at him. “What, knighting yourself?” _

_ Ben nodded, arms crossed, and Obi-Wan chuckled. “I don’t care. I want you to be the one to do it. You believe I’m ready, don’t you?” _

_ “I do.” _

_ “I feel ready,” Obi-Wan nods. “Are you?” he asks, and earns his master’s surprise for doing so. _

_ “Am I?” _

_ “You said you didn’t feel ready for your own knighthood, when the time came; that you weren’t ready the last time the council knighted your padawan,” Obi-Wan explains softly, “so I think it matters, whether you are ready to knight me or not. I can wait.” _

_ Ben had dropped his hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulders and drawn him in close, pressing their brows together. “Thank you.” _

_ Eyes closed, Ben had simply breathed for a moment, and Obi-Wan was glad of it, that he didn’t answer in an instant, that he truly considered it, considered his own feelings in the matter. _

_ “I’m ready.” _

_ Obi-Wan had spent the night in meditation, but rather than spending it in reflection – as he had been reflecting for weeks – he spent it simply allowing himself to be at peace with the world. _

_ When the edge of the horizon started to shift from midnight towards fragile grey, he had donned his silks and his armor, closed his eyes and let the Force alone guide him up the edge of the ridge, to the place Ben had chosen, had spent the night in his own meditation. _

_ He had knelt before his master, the wind sweeping past them both, and when he opened his eyes, the light of sunrise had been blinding. _

_ “By the will of the Force,” Ben had murmured, his violet-hued copper saber gracing first over Obi-Wan’s left shoulder, then his right, heat glowing against his face, and he utterly unafraid, looking up into his master’s eyes, trusting his steady hand. “You may rise, Obi-Wan Kenobi.” _

_ Obi-Wan stood, and Ben stared at him for a long minute, until the young man offered him a quiet, familiar smile. Ben reached forward and tugged on his braid one last time, then severed it. _

_ “Jedi Knight,” Ben had affirmed, handing him the braided lock of hair, the representation of his journey. _

_ They walked back down the ridge together, side by side, fulfilling the ceremony. _

He’s still getting used to its absence.

Speaking of…

Obi-Wan looks down and reaches into the fold of his tunics. “I have something for you.”

They’re leaving now, and he feels now is… appropriate.

Ben looks at him curiously, blue-grey eyes keen-edged and lively. The young knight pulls a folded cloth packet from his tunics and presents it to his master with a formal gesture, head bowed and palms flat.

Ben blinks, curiosity treading into seriousness, and he takes the cloth from the younger man's hands gently, taking care when folding open each edge.

In its folds, he finds a cable braid of sandy-red hair, fastened in sections with tiny green beads, and clasped at the ends with  _ beskar _ caps and latches.

Obi-Wan had sacrificed one of the plates on his armored gloves to fashion the  _ beskar _ caps, and he’d gotten what else he needed from the Jawas during their last visit. They were more than happy to oblige his need for forging tools, and they’d been able to provide a chemical treatment which should keep the hair from breaking down.

Obi-Wan swallows when Ben lifts the bracelet, and realizes that under the next layer of cloth is a second one – this one long enough to loop twice around his wrist, of dark golden-blonde hair woven in with desert-sky blue silk, the clasps made of carved japor.

He took a risk, but he’d seen Ben place the slim wooden case he kept his mementos in in a hidden cubby when they had started packing to leave, and he felt…

“We can leave it here, if you really want,” Obi-Wan says apologetically, “but I felt… he was your first padawan. Everything that’s happened… it doesn’t change that.”

And Obi-Wan himself, when presented with the chance, felt like he needed to  _ do _ something for  _ that _ Anakin. The one that failed, the one that Fell, the one Ben loved so much it broke him.

The one Obi-Wan would never know and Ben would never see again.

Ben’s fingers curl around the second memento, his eyes falling shut.

“Thank you, Obi-Wan,” he murmurs curtly, “but please… put it back.”

Obi-Wan nods and carefully takes it, cloth and all, and refolds it nearly. He goes back into the house, unseals the hidden little storage cubby, and sets it inside.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out.

He seals everything back up, and they leave it behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: I didn't think this was where I would end this (Mirage, not Desert Storm), but this is where I really felt the ending, so....
> 
> Shortest chapter to date, but I also wrote 6k for the holiday for you to enjoy at the same time, and sometimes its just gotta stop where it stops.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Beyond The Stars From Sight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27330826) by [darthtenebrosius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthtenebrosius/pseuds/darthtenebrosius)




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